GLADYS 


A   ROMANCE 


BY 

MARY   GREENLEAF   DARLING 


He  is  the  half  part  of  a  blessed  man, 
Left  to  be  finished  by  such  a  she; 
And  she  a  fair  divided  excellence, 
Whose  fulness  of  perfection  lies  in  him. 
KING  JOHN. 


FRANKLIN    AND    HAWLEY    STKEETS 


COPYRIGHT   1887 

BY 
D   LOTHROP   COMPAKY 


A  thing  to  walk  with,  hand  in  hand, 

Through  the  every-dayness  of  this  work-day  world, 

Baring  its  tender  feet  to  every  roughness, 

Yet  letting  not  one  heart-beat  go  astray 

From  Beauty's  law  of  plainness  and  content.     .     .     . 

Such  is  true  Love,  which  steals  into  the  heart 

With  feet  as  silent  as  the  lightsome  dawn 

That  kisses  smooth  the  rough  brows  of  the  dark, 

And  hath  its  will  thro'  blissful  gentleness  — 

Not  like  a  rocket  which,  with  savage  glare, 

Whirs  suddenly  up,  then  bursts,  and  leaves  the  night 

Painfully  quivering  on  the  dazed  eyes 

A  Love  that  shall  be  new  and  fresh  each  hour 

As  is  the  golden  mystery  of  sunset, 

Or  the  sweet  coming  of  the  evening  star. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER.  PAGE. 

I.  ON  THE  STEAMER        ......  7 

II.  GLADYS'  PAST 12 

III.  AN   UNWELCOME   SUITOR 25 

IV.  A  NEW  ROLE  FOR  GLADYS 44 

V.  GOLDEN  SUMMER 53 

VI.  A  CHANCE  RAY  OF  LIGHT 63 

VII.  GIRLHOOD'S  TROUBLES 87 

VIII.  AN  ORDEAL  BY  FIRE 102 

IX.  MR.  LYMAN'S  CHECKMATE 119 

;        X.  A  MODERN  BARBARA 132 

XL  A  MEETING 142 

XII.  A  CITY  OF  THE  DEAD 151 

XIII.  THE  NOBLE  ARMY  OF  MARTYRS  ....  166 

XIV.  THE  LITTLE  RIFT 177 

XV.  FATHER  AND  SON 184 

XVI.  FILLING  THE  VOID 194 

XVII.  NEW  LINKS 209 

XVIII.  LITTLE  TOM .220 

XIX.  DIVIDED 231 

XX.  A  FRIEND  IN  NEED 238 

XXI.  ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE 250 

XXII.  A  BREATH  OF  MOUNTAIN  AIR    .  262 

XXIII.  NANCY'S  ROMANCE 277 

XXIV.  SURPRISED 290 

XXV.  LOVE'S  FULFILLING 294 


GLADYS:   A  ROMANCE. 


CHAPTER    I. 

ON     THE     STEAMER. 
"Youth  at  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm." 

WHAT,  Doctor,  is  it  you  ?  I  am  delighted  ! 
I  was  not  looking  for  any  rational  com 
panionship  at  this  hour." 

The  doctor  paused  in  the  rather  blind  groping 
of  his  way  up  the  cabin  stairs,  first  to  scrutinize 
his  welcomer,  then,  as  recognition  dawned  upon 
his  dazzled  vision,  to  reply  in  a  brusque  tone  quite 
at  variance  with  his  hearty  grasp  of  the  hand,  — 

"  Nor  would  you  have  it  now,  my  dear  madam, 
if  it  depended  on  my  own  choice,  or  if  professional 
claims  would  ever  release  one  before  bed-time ! 
But,  what  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  sensible, 
are  you  doing  here  in  the  cabin  at  11.30  P.M., 
when  you  might  be  asleep  in  your  state-room  ? " 

"  Oh  !  the  girls,  Madge  and  Gladys,  could  not 
7 


8  ON    THE    STEAMER. 

be  induced  to  go  before  the  train  arrived,  that 
they  might  see  who  were  to  be  their  fellow-passen 
gers  on  the  steamer,  and  I,  like  the  most  indulgent 
of  chaperons,  as  I  am,  sit  up  playing  propriety." 

"  I  admire  the  way  in  which  you  perform  your 
duty,  then, "  said  Dr.  Forbes,  seating  himself 
comfortably  in  the  arm-chair  beside  the  smiling, 
well-preserved  matron  of  the  world.  "  Where  are 
the  flock  ? " 

"  Out  in  the  moonlight,  under  the  safe  conduct 
of  Charles  and  Edith,  or  in  and  out  of  the  cabin, 
as  the  whim  takes  them.  I  hear  their  voices 
now."  And  she  glanced  over  her  shoulder  towards 
a  chatting,  laughing  group  of  young  men  and 
girls,  newly  met  in  the  middle  of  the  cabin. 

The  doctor's  eye  followed  hers.  "  Yes,  I  see 
Miss  Edith  with  her  betrothed,  and  Miss  Madge's 
round  cheeks  ;  but  who  is  that  slender  girl  behind 
—  Gladys,  did  you  say  ?  " 

"Yes;  Gordon's  child.  Didn't  you  know  ?  He 
means  to  settle  down  at  last,  after  all  his  wander 
ings,  in  the  old  Boston  home,  and  introduce  his 
daughter  to  society  himself.  She  is  fresh  from  a 
New  York  boarding-school,  and  is  to  spend  this 
summer  under  my  care." 


ON    THE    STEAMER.  9 

"Humph!"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  shrug,  "if 
the  young  lady  is  at  all  like  her  father,  as  I  re 
member  him,  you  will  have  no  light  addition  to 
your  cares.  Young  Gordon  Lyman  was  a  wild 
bird  once,  with  a  strong  will  of  his  own.  I  have 
not  seen  him  for  years." 

"  Nor  has  any  one,"  returned  Mrs.  Waterston, 
half-sadly.  "  He  has  never  been  able  to  settle  at 
home  since  his  marriage.  First  his  wife's  ill- 
health  and  taste  for  life  abroad,  then  her  death, 
and  his  own  aversion  to  coming  back  to  the  closed 
house  —  Gladys,  I  believe,  knows  something  of 
every  country  but  her  own." 

"  What  sort  of  girl  is  she  ?  "  asked  the  doctor 
abruptly,  with  the  freedom  of  the  household  friend 
to  whom  are  revealed  all  secrets,  whether  physi 
cal  or  moral. 

"A  sweet  child,"  replied  the  aunt  warmly. 
"  But  here  she  comes.  You  shall  judge  her  for 
yourself." 

"Well,  mamma,  we  have  found  quite  friends 
enough  to  repay  us  for  sitting  up,  if  that  is  any 
consolation  to  you,"  cried  Margaret  Waterston's 
blithe  voice.  "  Here  are  the  Cliffords,  and  they  say 
Mr.  Boylston's  yacht,  with  Raymond  Lindesay  and 


IO  ON    THE    STEAMER. 

a  party  of  reading  men,  is  already  at  Bar  Harbor 
—  Oh,  Dr.  Forbes  !    I  am  so  glad  to  see  you." 

Edith  Waterston's  greeting,  though  less  hearty, 
was  no  less  friendly  than  her  sister's,  and  Gladys 
glanced  shyly  over  her  cousin's  shoulder  at  the 
gray-haired,  rather  cynical-looking  man  who  was 
welcomed  so  warmly. 

She  was  tall  and  slight,  with  a  graceful  figure, 
full  of  elasticity  and  vigor,  and  a  delicate  face 
flushed  with  a  faint  wild-rose  tint,  fair  hair  and 
sweet,  dewy  dark  eyes. 

"  I  am  glad  to  meet  you,  Miss  Lyman,  for  your 
father  was  a  friend  of  mine  in  his  young  days. 
Where  is  he  now  ?  " 

"  In  Switzerland.  I  could  not  persuade  him  to 
come  home  before  September,  at  the  earliest.  I 
have  not  seen  him  for  nearly  a  year,  and  oh !  I  do 
so  long  for  his  coming  !  " 

"Take  care,  Doctor,  you  will  make  her  home 
sick  if  you  talk  of  'papa'!"  said  Madge.  She 
spoke  caressingly,  however,  and  stole  an  arm  round 
Gladys'  waist. 

Gladys  half-laughed.  "  I  am  ashamed  of  my 
self,"  she  said,  lifting  the  brown  eyes  in  which 
sudden  tears  had  welled  up,  to  the  quizzical,  kindly 


ON    THE    STEAMER.  II 

face.  "  I  have  been  much  away  from  papa,  too, 
when  I  was  younger,  but  not  of  late  years ;  we 
have  been  always  together." 

The  sweet,  tearful  eyes,  with  the  simple  burst 
of  emotion,  quite  won  their  way  through  the  rough 
shell  to  the  old  doctor's  kindly  heart,  and  Gladys 
Lyman  closed  her  state-room  door  that  night  on  a 
staunch  friend.  • 


CHAPTER  II. 
GLADYS'  PAST. 

.     .     .     .     Those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain*light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing. 

WORDSWORTH. 

HOMESICKNESS  cannot  last  long  in  an 
atmosphere  of  youth  and  merriment,  with 
a  smiling  present  and  a  hopeful  future.  Gladys, 
accordingly,  was  one  of  the  blithest  of  the  group 
assembled  at  early  morning  on  the  deck  to  watch 
the  steamer's  slow  progress  among  islands  and 
points  of  land  on  her  way  to  Mt.  Desert.  Those 
were  the  old  happy  days  when  Eden  railroads  were 
not,  and  patient  waiters  for  the  steamboat's  mid 
night  start  thought  themselves  no  losers  in  the 
glow  of  the  sunlit  scenery. 

"No  seasickness,  I  see,"  said  the  doctor,  who, 
buttoned  up  in  his  ulster,  was  already  pacing  the 
deck  as  Gladys  opened  the  little  glass  door. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "     The  girl's  cheeks  and  eyes  were  as 


GLADYS     PAST.  13 

bright  as  the  morning.  "  But  it  seemed  a  waste 
of  time  to  stay  any  longer  in  that  close  little  state 
room.  This  is  too  beautiful  to  lose." 

One  by  one  the  little  group  gathered  in  a  nook 
sheltered  from  the  wind,  the  doctor  eying  them 
with  a  half-amused  glance  while  they  chatted  and 
laughed,  quite  unconscious  of  his  observation. 

Edith  Waterston,  being  somewhat  older  than  the 
others,  was  a  little  less  free  in  her  girlish  enthu 
siasm.  She  sat  apart  with  her  betrothed,  Charles 
Freeman,  her  quiet,  incisive  utterance  coming  in 
occasionally  as  a  check  on  her  younger  sister's  in 
domitable  flow  of  spirits.  Unfailingly  gay  and 
good-natured,  Madge  poured  out  questions,  augu 
ries  for  the  future,  and  rapturous  exclamations  at 
the  scenery,  all  in  a  breath. 

"And  Ned  Boylston  is  there,  you  say?  Now 
he  is  just  suited  to  my  capacity;  but  as  for  Mr. 
Lindesay  —  there  is  a  sort  of  suppressed  clever 
ness  about  him  which  makes  me  quite  tongue-tied 
in  his  presence.  Gladys,  however,  hasn't  yet  had 
time  to  forget  all  she  learned  at  school  — 

"  He  is  not  in  the  least  alarming,"  said  Anna 
Clifford,  a  self-possessed  damsel  with  a  cold,  light- 
blue  eye. 


14  GLADYS     PAST. 

"  Perhaps  not,  if  you  attack  him  at  the  right 
point.  Yet  I  never  thought  you  so  very  abstruse, 
Anna  —  or  is  cleverness  contagious  ?  Don't  look 
so  very  reproving,  Edith !  Anna  has  no  more 
ambition  for  being  called  a  blue-stocking  than  I 
have." 

"  No  one  supposed  she  had,  Madge,  but  Mr. 
Lindesay  is  really  entertaining,  and  by  no  means 
likely  to  confine  his  attention  to  blue-stockings." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  returned  Madge  hastily,  "but 
who  is  there  for  little  Gladys  ?  You  know  she  is 
not  out  yet,  Mr.  Clifford,  and  I  should  like  society 
to  dawn  on  her  through  the  medium  of  some  one 
who,  without  being  too  alarming,  could  yet  pres 
ent  himself  as  one  quite  au  fait  with  the  gay 

* 
world." 

"  There  is  Mr.  Morgan  Amory,"  said  Anna, 
with  a  little  sneering  laugh  which  struck  rather 
unpleasantly  on  the  observant  doctor's  ear.  "He 
is  in  his  cottage,  this  summer,  and  has  some  new 
saddle-horses.  They  say  he  is  on  the  lookout  for 
a  capital  horsewoman  as  a  riding  companion,  and, 
perhaps,  a  mistress  for  the  cottage  as  well.  Miss 
Lyman  is  new." 

Madge  clasped  her  hands  rapturously. 


GLADYS     PAST.  1 5 

"  And  she  rides  famously !  Gladys,  my  dear, 
if  you  could  only  get  on  his  weak  side !  Such  an 
invaluable  friend  for  you  next  winter!  " 

"  Oh  !  I  am  too  much  of  a  novice  for  Mr.  Amory," 
said  Gladys,  with  an  amused  little  laugh.  "  You 
forget  that  I  am  only  a  schoolgirl." 

"  But,  my  dear,  if  he  would  only  take  you  up,  to 
begin  with  !  I'll  make  over  all  my  own  claims  to 
saddle-horses  and  cottage  on  the  spot." 

"  Many  thanks,  dear  Madge,  but  I'm  afraid  he 
would  enjoy  the  part  you've  assigned  him  no  more 
than  I  should." 

"  Won't  you  accept  of  me  as  a  substitute,  Miss 
Lyman  ?  "  said-young  Clifford  ;  "  I'm  a  novice  my 
self." 

"  Yes,  very  gratefully,  Mr.  Clifford,  for  you  will 
not  stoop  to  pick  me  up,  as  I  fear  Mr.  Amory 
would  have  to.  I  should  not  like  that." 

"  No,"  said  Madge,  her  eager  eyes  fixed  on  the 
land  they  were  passing,  "it  isn't  easy  to  patron 
ize  Gladys,  I  find,  if  she  is  an  unfledged  school 
girl,  and  I,  a  woman  of  the  world.  After  one 
season  in  town  I  shall  positively  —  Oh,  girls  !  just 
look  at  that  lovely  little  islet.  I  have  half  a  mind 
to  forego  Bar  Harbor  on  the  spot,  and  just  ask  the 


16  GLADYS'  PAST. 

captain  to  leave  me  here.  What  a  place  for  a 
lodge  in  a  vast  wilderness  !  " 

"  In  which  you  would  be  sighing  for  society 
before  supper-time,"  said  Edith,  quietly. 

Very  light  prattle,  surely,  but  not  lost  on  the 
ear  of  the  doctor,  who  was,  from  temperament,  as 
well  as  the  habit  of  his  profession,  a  student  of 
human  nature.  He  turned,  half-smiling,  to  look  at 
Gladys  as  she  made  her  laughing  rejoinder  to 
young  Clifford,  and  quite  agreed  with  Madge  that 
patronage  must  be  a  difficult  attitude  to  assume 
towards  the  young  girl,  novice  though  she  might 
be.  Simple  as  she  obviously  was,  her  bright  eyes 
dancing  with  enjoyment  of  all  around  her,  there 
was  a  quiet  collectedness  in  her  tone  and  manner, 
whether  in  answering  Anna  Clifford's  cool  sallies, 
or  her  brother's  rather  blundering  eagerness  to 
please — alack  of  the  fluttering  excitement,  char 
acteristic  of  the  schoolgirl  just  launched  on  the 
world,  which  showed  self-command  and  pleased 
the  good  doctor. 

"  She  has  her  nerves  under  control,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "  and  will  never  lose  her  head  as  JVTadge 
might.  But  she  comes  by  that  by  good  rights." 

Yet  it  was  not  by  inheritance,  only,  that  Gladys 


GLADYS     PAST.  I/ 

had  come  to  her  power  of  self-control.  Young 
and  simple  as  she  was,  secluded  and  almost  solitary 
as  her  life  had  hitherto  been,  the  rapid  changes  in 
her  surroundings  had  been  a  school  of  character. 
She  was  too  young  when  she  left  it  to  remember 
the  Boston  home  to  which  she  was  to  return  next 
winter,  but  as  far  back  as  her  memory  went,  the 
frail,  beautiful  mother  had  been  the  centre  of  her 
father's  solicitude  and  the  moving-spring  of  their 
home.  This  was  true  literally  as  well  as  figura 
tively,  for,  at  her  slightest  wish,  seas  and  moun 
tains  were  crossed,  and  they  found  themselves  in 
France,  Italy  or  Switzerland.  It  was  a  sick  fancy 
only ;  Mr.  Lyman  knew,  probably  the  invalid  her 
self  knew,  that  all  change  was  hopeless. 

The  one  element  of  permanence  in  little  Gladys' 
changeful  life  was  a  thoroughly  wise  and  sym 
pathetic  governess.  Mrs.  Stanhope  had  been  a 
school-friend  of  Mrs.  Lyman's,  and  now,  as  a  young 
widow,  shared  all  their  wanderings.  Whether 
Gladys  were  left  in  French  pension,  German  fam 
ily  or  Swiss  clialet,  Mrs.  Stanhope  was  always  with 
her,  and,  while  her  ready  ear  and  tongue  caught 
German  or  French  accents,  her  governess  laid  the 
foundation  of  a  thorough  English  education. 


1 8  GLADYS'  PAST. 

In  spite  of  her  wanderings,  the  child  was  amus 
ingly  loyal  to  home  and  to  all  the  institutions  of 
her  country  of  which  she  had  seen  so  little.  Pro 
bably  Mrs.  Stanhope,  who  had  an  instinctive  dread 
lest  her  foreign  surroundings  should  influence  the 
impressible  child,  had  herself  to  thank  for  this. 
But  she  need  not  have  feared  ;  Gladys  was  staunch 
in  her  attachments,  even  though  her  romantic 
imagination  might  have  been  largely  answerable 
for  forming  them. 

There  came  one  happy  summer  when  they  were 
all  together  in  the  beautiful  Lake  country.  Gladys 
was  fourteen  or  fifteen  then,  and  beginning  to  give 
promise  of  beauty  and  grace  that  delighted  her 
father. 

"  I  must  teach  her  to  ride,"  he  said  to  his  wife ; 
"  I  fancy  she  would  sit  well."  And  Gladys  would 
have  died  rather  than  disappoint  that  hope.  But, 
indeed,  it  did  not  require  much  effort  on  her 
part  to  realize  it.  She  was  absolutely  fearless,  and 
gifted  with  a  sort  of  native  ease  and  grace  which 
enabled  her  to  do  readily  all  that  she  undertook. 

"Why,  you  little  witch  !  "  said  her  father,  after 
they  had  ridden  a  few  times  together :  "  there  is 
positively  nothing  to  teach  you !  You  sit  your 


GLADYS'  PAST.  19 

horse  so  that  I  am  absolutely  proud  of  you,  and 
when  you  know  how  to  leap,  I  think  you  will  be 
perfect  in  horsemanship." 

"  Do  begin  soon,  papa,"  said  Gladys  delightedly. 

"You  are  not  afraid,  then  ?" 

"Only  the  least  little  bit.  I  shall  not  be 
when  you  are  ready  to  try  me.  How  could  I  be 
if,  as  you  say,  you  are  proud  of  me  ? " 

"  You  vain  little  minx,  "  said  her  father,  laugh 
ing,  "I  must  beware  how  I  compliment  you,  I  see. 
I  would  not  have  you  conceited,  Gladys,  but  I 
detest  awkwardness  in  any  one." 

"  Papa,"  said  Gladys,  aggrieved,  "truly  I  am  not 
vain." 

"  What  then  ?  "  he  retorted,  laughing  still. 

"  Only  proud  to  think  you  are  proud  of  me.  Oh  ! 
when  you  say  that,  I  could  not  fail  in  anything." 

"  Have  my  words  such  magic  power,  then  ? 
Why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  love  you  so,"  returned  Gladys,  with 
a  quick  rush  of  color  to  cheek  and  brow. 

"Really,"  said  Mr.  Lyman,  when,  half-touched, 
half-amused,  he  repeated  the  little  dialogue  to  his 
wife,  "she  is  an  odd,  impressible  little  mortal! 
We  must  keep  an  eye  on  her  a  few  years  hence, 


2O  GLADYS     PAST. 

or  that  romantic  element  in  her  will  be  getting  us 
into  trouble.  Perhaps  it  is  only  the  love  of  power 
under  the  guise  of  impressibility,  —  what  do  you 
think,  Amy  ? " 

"  You  should  know  better  than  I,  Gordon. 
Gladys  is  so  much  more  like  you  than  me.  She 
is  not  sentimental,  surely ;  there  is  far  too  much 
strength  in  her  nature  for  that." 

It  was  a  happy  summer,  but  too  soon  over. 
Early  in  the  autumn,  even  before  the  leaves  and 
flowers  had  felt  the  change,  Mrs.  Lyman  began  to 
droop.  The.  happy  rides  and  loving  companion 
ship  of  parents  and  child  were  broken  off  on  the 
instant.  Mr.  Lyman  even  reproached  himself  for 
too  much  absorption.  They  were  on  the  wing 
directly  for  Mentone  ;  Gladys  was  left  behind  with 
her  governess  to  spend  a  few  more  weeks  in  Eng 
land,  then,  if  her  mother  should  be  better,  to  fol 
low  and  join  them  for  a  little  before  returning  to 
London  for  another  year  of  study.  Mrs.  Stanhope 
could  not  help  admiring  the  proud  self-command 
with  which  the  girl  bore  the  anguish  of  this  uncer 
tainty.  In  the  midst  of  scenes  which  often  made 
her  lip  quiver  with  the  memory  of  happy  past  days, 
she  would  not  utter  a  word  of  complaint,  lest  Mrs. 


GLADYS     PAST.  21 

Stanhope  should  suffer  with  her,  or  fancy  she  was 
less  happy  in  her  company  than  in  old  times. 

"Dear  girl!  what  a  power  of  loving  she  has," 
thought  the  governess  fondly.  In  her  eyes  Gladys 
was  all  but  perfect.  The  uncertainty  did  not  last 
long.  A  telegram  came  to  Mrs.  Stanhope  with 
the  brief  announcement  of  Mrs.  Lyman's  death. 
"Break  it  to  Gladys." 

There  is  something  eloquent  in  the  very  brevity 
of  a  telegram.  Mrs.  Stanhope  could  imagine  just 
the  look  of  agony  with  which  Mr.  Lyman  would 
have  said  the  words,  and  turned  away  because  he 
could  not  say  more.  But  while  she  sat  weeping 
and  thinking  how  she  should  "  break  it  to  Gladys," 
the  girl  threw  her  arms  around  her  and  kissed  her 
gently. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Stanhope,  do  not  cry  !  I  can  bear  it ! 
I  know  what  you  are  going  to  tell  me.  Mamma  is 
very  ill,  —  or  perhaps,"  as  she  saw  the  change  in  her 
governess's  face,  "  perhaps  she  is  already  dead  ?  " 

Mrs.  Stanhope  silently  bowed  her  head  and 
Gladys  sat  for  a  long  time  quite  still,  the  quiet 
tears  dropping  on  her  folded  hands.  Presently  she 
started  up  like  one  who  feels  she  must  no  longer 
yield  to  her  own  grief. 


22  GLADYS     PAST. 

"  What  does  papa  say  ?  Does  he  tell  us  to 
come  ? " 

"  He  does  not  say  one  word  of  that,  dear." 

"  Then  we  will  go  to  him  ourselves  —  he  must 
not  be  left  alone !  See !  will  this  telegram  do 
to  send  ?  And  we  will  pack  at  once." 

It  did  not  seem  an  impatience  of  grief,  such  as 
many  young  and  bright  natures  feel,  but  complete 
absorption  in  the  thought  of  another. 

They  came  upon  Mr.  Lyman  sitting  alone  with 
his  overwhelming  sorrow,  even  before  he  had  re 
membered  that  there  was  still  something  left  to 
him.  His  first  exclamation  was  almost  one  of  dis 
pleasure  : 

"Gladys  !     You  here!     I  did  not  send  for  you." 

"  No,  papa,"  said  the  girl,  advancing  firmly, 
though  Mrs.  Stanhope  would  have  drawn  back, 
"but  I  felt  I  must  be  with  you  —  you  will  let  me 
stay  ?  " 

The  tone  was  half-pleading,  half-determined.  Mr. 
Lyman  said  nothing  more,  and  presently,  as  his 
daughter  sat  beside  him,  put  one  hand  gently  on 
hers. 

Society  called  Mr.  Lyman  a  proud,  somewhat 
cold  and  worldly  man  ;  but  his  daughter,  knowing 


GLADYS     PAST.  23 

how  disinterested  and  tender  had  been  his  absorp 
tion  in  his  wife,  rightly  guessed  that  his  best  had 
been  given  to  her,  and  longed,  as  much  as  in  her 
lay,  to  fill  the  void  which  her  mother  had  left. 

Mrs.  Lyman  was  buried  at  Mentone,  and  not  a 
word  was  said  about  going  home.  At  last  Mrs. 
Stanhope,  anxious  for  the  welfare  of  her  charge, 
hinted  at  the  former  plan  of  a  winter  in  London. 

"  Yes,  Gladys  must  go,  I  suppose,"  he  said, 
rousing  himself  from  the  abstraction  which  only 
Gladys  herself  had  power  to  charm  away ;  "  or  it 
might  be  better  for  her  to  go  home  at  once  to 
America.  I  have  always  intended  that  she  should 
finish  her  education  in  her  own  country." 

"Home  !  oh  ! "  cried  Gladys,  her  eyes  beaming 
with  joy,  "are  we  really  going  home  to  America  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head  quickly. 

"  Not  yet.  I  am  not  ready  to  go.  But  you 
shall  go  if  you  wish  it,  Gladys." 

"  I  do  not  wish  it  till  you  are  ready.  One  year 
of  American  education  will  do  for  me,  won't  it, 
Mrs.  Stanhope  ?  We  will  spend  the  winter  to 
gether  in  London,  papa.  You  know  you  wished 
me  to  take  drawing-lessons."  She  spoke  with  more 
confidence  than  she  felt,  clinging  fondly  to  his  hand. 


24  GLADYS     PAST. 

"  That  had  not  been  my  plan  for  myself,"  said 
Mr.  Lyman,  with  a  momentary  half-smile,  "  but  it 
shall  be  as  you  choose,  Gladys,"  And  she  felt 
that  her  first  victory  had  been  gained. 

That,  too,  was  a  happy  winter,  in  spite  of  its 
shadow  of  sadness.  With  the  tact  belonging  to 
her  strong  affection,  Gladys  contrived  to  draw  her 
father  into  interest  in  her  own  pursuits,  revived 
his  appreciative  enjoyment  of  art  by  her  own 
eagerness  to  see,  and  her  untiring  efforts  to  excel. 
It  was  through  her  influence  that  he  began  the 
collection  of  pictures  for  the  Boston  home  which 
furnished  him  with  a  central  interest  all  through 
the  remaining  years  of  his  life.  Together  they 
haunted  picture-galleries,  art-museums,  studios  and 
art-shops  till  the  tall,  distinguished-looking  man 
and  the  lovely  girl  began  to  be  a  beacon  of  hope  to 
picture-dealers,  and  a  cynosure  to  artists.  Nor  in 
these  alone  did  Gladys  excite  admiration  ;  but  this 
part  of  her  history  calls  for  a  fresh  chapter. 


CHAPTER  III. 

AN    UNWELCOME    SUITOR. 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 

LONGFELLOW. 

IN  the  course  of  their  art-rambles  in  London, 
they  met  and  were  often  joined  by  a  young 
man  whom  Mr.  Lyman  addressed  as  Willoughby, 
and  with  whom  he  seemed,  in  spite  of  the  dispar 
ity  of  their  ages,  to  stand  on  a  pleasant  footing 
of  artistic  sympathy.  Since  his  wife's  death 
Mr.  Lyman  had  avoided  all  social  intercourse, 
and  neither  given  nor  accepted  invitations.  He 
wrapped  himself  in  a  cloak  of  cold  reserve,  like 
one  who  dreaded  the  proffer  of  sympathy,  and  the 
world,  repelled  by  his  manner,  dared  not  offer  it. 
But  about  this  young  man  there  was  a  genial, 
simple  frankness  which  would  not  be  repelled,  or, 
rather,  which  disarmed  the  suspicion  of  intrusion. 
Finding  that  Mr.  Lyman  was  interested  in  picture 
hunting,  he  made  himself  useful  to  him  in  a  thou- 

25 


26  AN    UNWELCOME    SUITOR. 

sand  ways,  entering  into  his  pursuit  of  master 
pieces  with  as  much  eagerness  as  if  the  quest  were 
his  own,  and  falling  quite  naturally  into  the  habit 
of  coming  frequently  to  the  house.  He  was  in 
London  to  pursue  art,  not  as  a  means  of  livelihood, 
though  it  was  his  ostensible  profession,  but  from 
love  of  the  pursuit. 

"And  really  Charles  Willoughby  has  no  incon 
siderable  talent,"  Mr.  Lyman  said  to  his  daughter. 
"  He  invites  us  to  his  studio,  Gladys." 

To  the  studio,  in  course  of  time,  they  went, 
Gladys  delighted  that  anything  could  draw  her 
father  from  his  heart-broken  seclusion,  and  over 
flowing  with  gratitude  to  the  young  man  who  had 
power  to  work  the  charm.  She  was  sixteen  that 
winter,  and  very  lovely,  with  manners  half-childlike 
in  their  frankness,  half-womanly  in  their  occasional 
shy  reserve,  but  always  simple  and  unconscious 
of  self.  Young  Willoughby  treated  her  with  the 
hearty  pleasant  cordiality  of  manner  natural  to 
him,  and  she  was  speedily  almost  as  much  at  ease 
with  him  as  with  her  father  or  Mrs.  Stanhope.  It 
became  quite  a  matter  of  course  that  he  should  be 
the  third  in  their  picture  hunts  or  horseback  rides. 
Then  he  began  to  help  Gladys  in  her  drawing,  prais- 


AN    UNWEL'COME    SUITOR.  2/ 

ing  or  criticising  her  efforts  as  a  teacher  might, 
while  she  received  the  praise  or  blame  in  quite  the 
same  spirit  as  a  pupil. 

"  Mr.  Willoughby  really  thinks  my  foliage  is 
improving,  papa,"  or,  "  I  wish  I  could  ever  make 
Mr.  Willoughby  think  my  skies  tolerable  !  " 

At  last  one  day  when  they  were  all  in  the  studio, 
the  young  artist,  who  had  been  watching  Gladys 
as  she  rummaged  about  among  the  pictures,  quite 
unconscious  of  his  observation,  asked  Mr.  Lyman, 
with  a  new  hesitation  in  his  manner,  if  he  might 
paint  her  portrait. 

"  Why,  if  you  wish  it,  my  dear  fellow,  although 
I  should  have  thought  it  would  be  better  to  wait 
a  few  years.  Girlhood,  you  know,  is  a  variable 
period."  Willoughby  blushed  slightly,  smiled,  and 
quoted  a  line  or  two  of  Longfellow's,  — 

"  Standing  with  reluctant  feet, 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet," 

but  repeated  his  request. 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  and  Gladys  agree,  then," 
said  Mr.  Lyman,  carelessly.  "  Would  you  like 
Mr.  Willoughby  to  paint  your  portrait,  my  pet  ? " 

"Better  than  anyone  else,"  said  Gladys,  laugh- 


28  AN    UNWELCOME    SUITOR. 

ingly,  "  if  he  likes  to  try.  I  am  afraid  it  will  be  a 
little  tiresome." 

The  sittings  at  the  studio  were  begun,  and 
became  a  part  of  Mrs.  Stanhope's  and  Gladys* 
bi-weekly  duty ;  the  former,  as  the  unoccupied 
third,  often  noticed  and  remarked  upon  the  extra 
ordinary  earnestness  which  the  young  man  threw 
into  his  task. 

"But  Gladys  is  a  happy  subject,"  she  observed 
to  Mr.  Lyman  ;  "  a  few  years  hence,  when  she  has 
been  told  that  she  is  beautiful,  she  will  hardly  be 
so  perfect,  because  so  unconscious  a  model." 

"Very  probably -not,"  Mr.  Lyman  replied. 

He  was  not  to  see  the  portrait  until  it  was  in- 
ished,  but  the  day  came  sooner  than  he  had  a<  ici- 
pated.  Looking  upon  Gladys  as  an  unformed  Cviild, 
he  had  thought  little  about  the  matter ;  but  when 
he  saw  the  portrait,  surprise  and  delight  quite  over 
came  his  indifference.  Willoughby  had  caught  her 
very  look  and  air ;  it  was  a  living,  breathing  Gladys  ! 

"Why,  my  dear  fellow  !  "  Mr.  Lyman  exclaimed, 
startled  out  of  his  usual  nonchalance,  "  I  had  no 
idea  you  possessed  such  genius  !  That  is  no  por 
trait !  It  is  Gladys'  self!  How  you  must  have 
studied  your  .subject !  " 


AN    UNWELCOME   SUITOR.  2Q 

Willoughby  colored  slightly,  but  murmured  some 
thing  as  he  bent  over  his  palette  about  "familiarity 
making  it  easy  to  catch  the  pose." 

"  I  should  have  thought  it  more  beautiful  than 
Gladys,  at  first  sight,"  said  Mr.  Lyman,  still  ad 
vancing  and  retreating,  connoisseur-wise,  before 
the  canvas.  "  I  suppose  I  cannot  judge  of  that  so 
well  as  a  stranger.  To  me  Gladys  is  still  a  child, 
and  though  this  is  her  very  self,  I  should  have  said 
if  it  were  not  my  own  daughter's  portrait,  'What 
a  lovely  woman  ! '  You  have  not  idealized  it,  Wil 
loughby  ? " 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world !  "  said  the  young 
man,  coloring  more  deeply;  "  this  is  only  the  first 
impression  that  Miss  Lyman  makes.  In  reality, 
she  is  far  more  beautiful  than  that !  " 

"  I  suppose  you  artists  know  best,"  said  the 
father,  with  a  pleased  smile.  "  But  I  congratulate 
you  on  your  success,  my  dear  fellow,  and  I  hope, 
though  it  is  your  chef-d'oeuvre,  that  I  may  buy 
the  portrait  ? " 

"  I  hoped  you  might  wish  to  take  it,"  the  artist 
replied. 

"  Do  you  know,"  Gladys  said,  a  few  days  after, 
in  the  hearing  of  her  father  and  Mrs.  Stanhope, 


3O  AN    UNWELCOME    SUITOR. 

"  when  we  were  in  the  studio,  this  afternoon,  I 
came,  in  my  exploring,  on  a  duplicate  of  my 
portrait !  '  Why,  what  is  this,  Mr.  Willoughby  ? ' 
said  I,  '  do  artists  paint  two  copies  of  their  sub 
jects  ?  For  whom  is  this  ? '  '  For  myself,'  said 
Mr.  Willoughby,  and  colored,  quite  as  if  he  were 
ashamed  of  his  vanity,  though  he  explained  very 
frankly  that  artists  did  like  to  keep  copies  of  their 
best  works.  He  popped  the  canvas  away,  though, 
behind  two  others,  and  I  was  half  afraid  to  speak 
of  it  when  you  came  back." 

Mr.  Lyman  smiled  and  forgot  the  matter,  which 
Gladys  treated  as  an  odd  and  somewhat  amusing 
piece  of  weakness,  but  on  Mrs.  Stanhope  it  made 
more  impression. 

That  summer  was  spent  in  Switzerland,  and  was 
to  be  the  last  before  Gladys  should  return  to 
America  to  spend  one  year  in  a  New  York  board 
ing-school. 

"  I  think  she  needs  the  companionship  of  other 
girls,"  Mrs.  Stanhope  said  ;  "  she  has  grown  up 
quite  apart  from  those  of  her  own  age.  I  can  see 
no  flaw  in  her ;  she  seems  to  me  utterly  free 
from  the  self-conceit  she  might  easily  have,  since 
she  is  really  so  superior  to  most  girls.  Yet  I  do 


AN    UNWELCOME    SUITOR.  31 

advise  letting  her  measure  herself  with  others  ;  the 
companionship  will  be  good  for  her,  if  not  the 
competition." 

"  This  is  very  disinterested  advice  of  Mrs.  Stan 
hope's,  Gladys,"  said  Mr.  Lyman,  as  the  girl 
entered  the  room,  "  but  it  is  wise  counsel  as  well." 

"Then  you  will  come  home  too,  papa  ?"  she 
asked  wistfully. 

"  No,  my  Gladys,  not  yet.  I  could  not  go  back 
to  the  old  home  without  you  to  brighten  it  for  me. 
Another  year,  when  you  are  ready  to  go  into 
society,  I  will  pledge  myself,  but  not  yet." 

"  Am  I  to  lose  you  both  at  once,  then  ? "  the 
girl  asked  sorrowfully. 

"Not  me,  Gladys,"  said  Mrs.  Stanhope,  trying 
to  smile.  "You  know  my  old  home  is  in  New 
York,  and  though  you  will  be  at  school,  you  will 
always  have  that  refuge  to  run  to." 

And  Gladys,  always  ready  to  see  the  wisdom  of 
any  measure  proposed  by  those  she  loved,  bright 
ened,  and  resolved  to  enjoy  this  last  summer  to 
the  full. 

She  sat,  one  afternoon,  on  the  hotel  piazza,  at 
Interlaken,  her  sketch-book  before  her,  trying, 
most  earnestly,  to  catch  the  lights  and  shadows 


32  AN    UNWELCOME    SUITOR. 

on  the  mountains.  A  carriage  had  just  set  down 
two  or  three  tourists  at  the  door,  and  one,  a  young 
Englishman,  raised  his  eyes  quickly  to  the  piazza 
above,  where  the  girl  stood  leaning  against  the 
pillar. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  of  no  use  ! "  she  said,  slowly 
retreating  backward  to  her  seat,  "I  can  hardly 
hope  to  catch  it,  I  suppose." 

She  had  spoken  to  Mrs.  Stanhope,  who  was, 
or  had  been,  sitting  just  behind  her;  but  it  was 
a  masculine  voice  which  said,  in  reply  : 

"Yet  that  is  not  bad — very  far  from  bad! 
A  touch  there  —  and  there  !"  and  a  masculine, 
sun-embrowned  hand,  picking  up  the  charcoal 
which  Gladys  had  dropped,  added  the  touches. 
The  voice  was  Charles  Willoughby's  genial  tone, 
but  the  hand,  unlike  his,  trembled. 

"Why,  Mr.  Willoughby !"  cried  Gladys,  aston 
ished,  "  is  it  really  you  ?  How  did  you  know  we 
were  here?  —  but  of  course  you  did  not  know  it." 

"  No ;  only  hoped  it,"  said  the  young  man,  as  he 
shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Stanhope,  who  stepped 
through  the  long  French  window  at  the  sound  of 
the  voice.  "  I  have  been  following  you  from  one 
place  to  another." 


AN    UNWELCOME    SUITOR.  33 

"  Of  course  I  ought  not  to  feel  so  when  he  came 
purposely  to  join  us,"  Gladys  afterwards  confided 
to  her  governess,  "  but  I  was  half-vexed  for  a  mo 
ment  that  this  last  summer  with  you  and  papa 
should  be  interrupted  by  anybody,  even  Mr.  Wil- 
loughby  !  But  I  suppose  he  can  hardly  be  called 
an  interruption,  after  all." 

For  a  few  days  he  certainly  was  not.  Mr.  Lyman 
was  fond  of  him,  and  the  trio  seemed  to  fall  again 
into  the  pleasant  London  life,  surroundings  only 
excepted.  They  walked,  drove,  climbed  mountains 
and  sketched  together,  and  Gladys,  forgetting  her 
momentary  annoyance,  was  her  own  gay,  sweet, 
unconstrained  self  again.  With  Mr.  Charles  Wil- 
loughby  there  was  this  difference  only  :  that  he  was 
less  talkative  than  usual,  occasionally  abstracted, 
and  apparently  unconscious  of  his  own  long  preoc 
cupied  lapses  into  silence. 

One  of  these  had  lasted  an  unusual  time  on  a 
certain  evening  when  Gladys  had  said  good-night 
and  gone  to  her  room  with  Mrs.  Stanhope,  leaving 
the  two  on  the  piazza,  smoking  in  the  moonlight. 
Mr.  Lyman  was  smoking,  I  should  say ;  Willoughby 
had  been  sitting  so  long  with  a  cigar  unlighted  in 
his  hand,  that  his  companion,  who  had  eyed  him 


34  AN    UNWELCOME    SUITOR. 

once  or  twice  with  some  amusement,  at  last  broke 
into  a  laugh,  and  laying  his  hand  on  the  young 
man's  shoulder,  said  jestingly  : 

"  May  I  ask  you  what  is  the  matter  with  that  cigar 
which  you  have  been  eying  so  critically  these  ten 
minutes  past  ?  " 

The  young  man  started.  "  I  was  not  thinking 
of  the  cigar,"  he  replied,  in  a  half-annoyed  tone ;  "  I 
have  something  serious  to  say  to  you,  Mr.  Lyman." 

"Oh!  indeed?"  returned  the  other,  laughingly. 
"  I  should  hardly  have  thought  you  had  anything, 
however  trifling,  to  say  to  me.  But  say  on,  my 
dear  fellow.  I  do  not  pretend  to  much  wisdom, 
but  such  as  I  have  is  at  the  service  of  my  friends," 

"Mr.  Lyman,"  said  the  young  man  abruptly, 
rising  and  standing  so  as  to  face  his  friend,  "  I  wish 
to  speak  to  you  about  your  daughter.  I  know  I 
shall  surprise  you,  for  you  have  probably  never 
connected  such  a  thought  with  our  acquaintance, 
but  the  truth  is  —  I  find  I  love  her." 

Mr.  Lyman  was  indeed  surprised.  He  fell  back 
in  his  chair,  looking  up  at  the  young  man  who 
stood  erect  and  earnest  before  him,  and  fairly 
gasped  in  his  amazement. 

"Gladys!    Why -~"  recovering  with  a  sort  of 


AN    UNWELCOME    SUITOR.  35 

relief  from  the  shock  of  surprise —  "  but  Gladys  is 
a  child  —  a  baby  !  " 

"  Not  quite  that,"  said  the  young  man.  "  Six 
teen  is  young,  certainly,  but  not  exactly  a  child." 

"  I  never  heard  anything  so  absurd  in  my  life  !  " 
cried  Mr.  Lyman,  quite  startled  out  of  his  usual 
polished  address  by  the  monstrosity  of  the  idea. 
"The  other  day  she  was  playing  with  dolls,  and  — 
why,  Willoughby,  she  goes  to  America  to  school 
in  September  !  " 

"  Plans  may  be  changed  in  view  of  changed  cir 
cumstances,"  said  the  young  man  a  little  stiffly. 
"  Your  surprise  is  quite  natural,  Mr.  Lyman,  and 
I  confess  frankly,  that  until  she  was  gone  from 
London  I  did  not  fully  know  that  I  had  learned  to 
love  her.  Of  course  I  am  rational  —  of  course  I 
am  looking  to  the  future  rather  than  hoping  for 
the  present.  But  I  thought  it  the  only  true  and 
honorable  course  to  speak  to  you  first,  and,  as  I 
have  spoken  from  my  heart  and  earnestly,  I  think 
I  have  a  right  to  expect  to  be  answered  in  the 
same  spirit." 

His  voice  trembled  a  little,  and  Mr.  Lyman, 
startled,  amused,  annoyed  as  he  was,  recognized 
the  justice  of  the  claim. 


36  AN    UNWELCOME    SUITOR. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  he  said  more  gravely ; 
"  I  will  try  to  meet  you  as  you  wish.  May  I  ask  if 
Gladys  has  any  suspicion  of  your  feeling  for  her?" 

"  I  think  not.  I  wished  to  speak  to  you,  if  pos 
sible,  before  giving  her  any  suspicion  of  it.  For 
that  reason  I  spoke  to-night,  fearing  I  could  no 
longer  conceal  it  from  her." 

"Very  right  and  manly,"  said  Mr.  Lyman,  "and 
I  believe  I  may  take  it  upon  myself  to  give  my 
daughter's  reply.  She  has  not  the  least  suspicion 
of  your  feeling  for  her,  nor  the  faintest  desire  to 
feel  the  same  for  any  one  herself  for  three  or  four 
years  to  come." 

Young  Willoughby,  however,  knit  his  brows, 
and  replied  to  Mr.  Lyman's  calm  assurance  with 
something  of  the  John  Bull  sullenness  in  his  tone  : 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Lyman  ;  1  cannot  consider 
your  answer  as  satisfactory  to  me  as  it  evidently  is 
to  yourself.  May  I  ask  if  there  is  anything  objec 
tionable  to  you  in  the  idea  of  such  a  match  ?  I 
am  quite  independent  of  my  parents  ;  I  have  my 
uncle's  fortune,  and  do  not  propose  to  interfere 
with  my  sisters'  portion,  though  the  estate,  as 
entailed,  comes  to  me.  If  my  fancy  for  an  artist's 
life  "  — 


AN    UNWELCOME    SUITOR.  37 

"  My  dear  Willoughby,"  cried  Mr.  Lyman,  hold 
ing  up  an  expostulatory  ringer,  "  I  have  not  a  word 
to  say  about  your  prospects  or  your  profession. 
Yourself,  your  family  and  your  fortune  are  all 
satisfactory  to  me.  The  point  is,  that  Gladys  is 
too  young  to  have  such  a  subject  broached  to  her 
at  all." 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  the  persistent  lover,  "  if  I 
differ  from  you.  I  have  already  said  that  I  was 
looking  to  the  future  rather  than  the  present. 
Yet  I  cannot,  in  justice  to  my  own  heart,  let  her 
go  away  to  a  new  country,  with  a  whole  new  world 
opening  before  her,  without  saying  a  word  for 
myself." 

"  She  knows  nothing  of  any  world,"  said  Mr. 
Lyman  hastily.  "  But  what  do  you  propose 
doing  ?  " 

"  With  your  consent,  saying  a  word  of  my  feel 
ings  to  your  daughter.  Or,  if  you  think  it  better, 
asking  you  to  speak  to  her  for  me.  I  would  not 
willingly  startle  her,  as  I  have  you,  but  I  am  trust 
ing  to  you  very  fully,  Mr.  Lyman." 

"  You  are,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Lyman,  touched  at 
last,  in  spite  of  his  annoyance  and  perplexity,  by 
the  young  man's  manly,  if  mistaken  earnestness, 


38  AN    UNWELCOME    SUITOR. 

"  I  will  think  it  over  and  speak  for  you.     Believe 
me,  that  is  the  better  course." 

Charles  Willoughby  said  good-night  at  once, 
with  a  hearty  pressure  of  the  hand,  and  Mr.  Lyman 
was  left  to  pace  the  piazza  for  an  hour  in  genuine 
perplexity. 

At  first  he  thought  of  sending  for  Mrs.  Stan 
hope  and  asking  whether  she,  with  her  woman's 
quicker  power  of  discernment,  had  suspected  the 
state  of  the  case,  but  he  hesitated,  feeling  it  dis 
loyalty  to  young  Willoughby  with  whose  secret  he 
had  been  entrusted.  So  it  happened  that  Gladys, 
coming  downstairs  next  morning,  all  unconscious, 
was  met  by  a  grave,  preoccupied  face,  instead  of 
the  usual  half-playful  morning  salutation  to  which 
she  was  accustomed. 

"  Come  to  me,  Gladys.  I  have  something  im 
portant  to  say  to  you." 

"  Nothing  too  serious,  I  hope,  papa  ? "  And, 
standing  by  his  side,  she  looked  rather  anxiously 
into  his  face  with  her  clear  brown  eyes.  There  was 
something  so  childlike  and  innocent  in  the  curves 
of  the  lovely  rose-tinted  face  that  Mr.  Lyman's 
involuntarily  relaxed  into  a  smile. 

"  No,  nothing  very  serious,   I   hope.     But   get 


AN    UNWELCOME    SUITOR.  39 

your  hat,  Gladys ;  we  will  take  a  little  walk  be 
fore  breakfast.  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  alone." 

Relieved  by  his  change  of  manner,  the  girl  ran 
for  her  hat,  and  the  two  set  out.  Alone  with 
Gladys,  however,  Mr.  Lyman  found  himself  in 
fresh  embarrassment.  How  begin  on  such  a  sub 
ject  with  this  very  child  unless  as  a  jest,  or  how, 
in  justice  to  Willoughby,  treat  it  otherwise  than 
seriously  ?  She  broke  the  ice,  however,  by  looking 
up  into  his  face  as  she  took  his  arm,  and  saying 
smilingly,  "Now,  papa,  begin ;  I  am  all  ears." 

"  Gladys,"  said  Mr.  Lyman,  playing  rather  ner 
vously  with  his  eyeglass,  "  what  do  you  think  of 
Mr.  Willoughby?" 

"Think  of  him?"  said  Gladys  merrily,  "why, 
I  did  think  it  rather  a  bore  that  he  should  have 
come  here  just  now,  but  I  am  getting  used  to  it, 
and  I  do  not  mind  very  much.  But  what  an  odd 
question !  Mr.  Willoughby  is  not  any  one  new." 

"  Only  new  in  this  capacity,  I  confess,"  said 
Mr.  Lyman,  with  a  smile.  "  My  dear  child,  I  wish 
you  to  listen  to  me  seriously  for  a  moment,  for  it 
is  my  duty  to  speak  to  you  seriously.  Do  you 
think  it  would  ever  be  possible  for  you  to  care  for 
Mr.  Willoughby  —  not  now,  of  course,  because  you 


4O  AN    UNWELCOME    SUITOR. 

are  too  young,  but  some  years  hence,  perhaps,  as 
—  as  a  girl  might  care  for  a  lover  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell,  papa?  I  could  not  think  of 
him  so,  of  course,  unless  —  unless  he  asked  me 
himself.  Why  do  you — " 

She  paused,  seeing  the  peculiar  expression  of 
her  father's  face. 

"  Why  do  I  ask  you  such  a  question  ? "  Mr. 
Lyman  repeated.  "  Because,  my  dear  child,  Mr. 
Willoughby  wished  it,  and,  young  as  you  are, 
cannot  be  satisfied  with  any  answer  but  your  own. 
It  was  very  honorable  of  him  to  speak  to  me  first, 
although  I  confess  it  startled  me  somewhat  to  think 
that  my  little  Gladys,  who  has  not  yet  done  with 
schoolbooks,  should  be  thinking  of  lovers." 

"  Indeed,  papa,  I  am  not  thinking  of  them," 
said  the  girl,  flushing  with  some  indignation,  like 
one  who  is  unjustly  accused.  "  I  have  never 
thought  of  Mr.  Willoughby,  or  any  one  else,  so  ! 
Why  did  you  not  tell  him  so  for  me  ?  " 

"  Because,  my  dear,"  said  the  father,  heartily 
relieved  by  the  girl's  indignation,  childish  as  it 
was,  "  Mr.  Willoughby  would  take  no  answer  but 
your  own.  It  is  no  subject  for  anger,  Gladys  ; 
a  <rood  man's  love  is  something  to  be  grateful  for. 


AN    UNWELCOME    SUITOR.  4! 

Mr.  Willoughby  is  a  very  earnest,  manly  fellow, 
whose  affection  is  worthy  a  woman's  winning." 

"  But  I  am  not  a  woman  yet,"  said  Gladys,  her 
lips  still  quivering.  "  It  is  very  absurd  of  him  to 
think  of  me  so  !  Please,  papa,  next  time  answer 
for  me.  You  know  quite  well  what  I  should 
say !  " 

"We  will  hope  there  will  be  no  'next  time'  at 
present,"  said  Mr.  Lyman,  smiling,  "  but  if  your 
mind  is  made  up,  you  must  write  a  line  or  two 
to  tell  him  so.  It  will  be  pleasanter  for  you  than 
seeing  him." 

"  Oh  !  I  could  not  see  him,"  cried  the  girl  dis 
tressfully.  "  All  my  comfort  is  spoiled  now,  and 
I  did  like  him  to  draw  and  ride  with ! "  The 
tears  rose  to  her  eyes,  but  she  dashed  them 
proudly  away.  "  What  shall  I  write  ?  No ;  you 
need  not  tell  me.  Give  me  your  little  pocket-book, 
please." 

And  sitting  down  on  the  grass,  she  wrote  while 
her  father  watched  her,  half-amused,  half-touched 
by  her  distress. 

"  I  think  that  will  do,"  she  said,  giving  him  the 
penciled  leaf.  "  And  I  shall  go  upstairs,  for  I  do 
not  wish  to  see  him  at  all." 


42  AN    UNWELCOME    SUITOR. 

Her  father  glanced  over  the  lines : 

DEAR  MR.  WILLOUGHBY  : 

I  am  very  sorry  you  did  not  believe  what  papa  told  you,  for  it 
is  quite  impossible  that  I  should  ever  think  of  such  a  thing  as 
you  ask.     Please  do  not  think  me  ungrateful  for  all  your  kind  help. 
I  thank  you  very  much,  and  hope  you  will  believe  me 
Your  affectionate  friend, 

GLADYS  LYMAN. 

"Yes;  that  will  do  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Lyman, 
rather  surprised  by  the  tone  of  the  note.  "  That 
is  quite  a  grown-up  answer.  Now,  go  in  to  Mrs. 
Stanhope,  my  dear  little  girl,  and  do  not  distress 
yourself  any  more  about  the  matter." 

"The  matter,"  however,  caused  Gladys  a  violent 
burst  of  grief  when  she  poured  it  out  to  the  sym 
pathetic  ears  of  Mrs.  Stanhope. 

"  So  absurd  !  "  said  the  girl,  sobbing  in  indigna 
tion  ;  "  why,  Mrs.  Stanhope,  if  I  had  cared  for  him, 
or  wished  him  to  care  for  me,  I  should  not  have 
gone  to  his  studio  or  talked  to  him  as  I  did.  He 
should  have  known  that." 

Mrs.  Stanhope  soothed  her,  and  her  sympathy 
went  far  in  banishing  the  clouds  from  her  pupil's 
horizon. 

"  And  yet,"  the  governess  owned  to  Mr.  Lyman, 
later,  "  I  was  not  so  surprised  as  you,  I  confess.  I 


AN    UNWELCOME    SUITOR.  43 

have  sometimes  fancied,  absurd  as  the  idea  seemed 
to  us,  in  view  of  Gladys'  youth,  that  Mr.  Wil- 
loughby  was  becoming  interested  in  her.  With 
all  her  childishness,  Gladys  is  a  woman  in  her  dig 
nity  and  self-possession." 

"  Little  puss  !  "  said  her  father,  laughing  at  the 
recollection  of  her  proud  indignation.  "Where 
did  she  learn  how  to  reject  a  lover  so  well  ?  Poor 
Willoughby  went  off  without  a  shadow  of  hope 
left.  I  wonder  if  she  will  ask  me,  a  few  years 
hence,  to  refuse  her  unwelcome  suitors  for  her  ! 
But  this  is  one  reason  the  more,  Mrs.  Stanhope, 
for  sending  her  to  school." 

And  into  the  new  world  of  a  girls'  boarding- 
school  Gladys  accordingly  went. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A    NEW    R6LE    FOR    GLADYS. 

For  naught  that  sets  one  heart  at  ease, 
And  giveth  happiness  or  peace, 
Is  low-esteemed  in  her  eyes. 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO  those  who  know  its  beauties,  Mt.  Desert 
is,  indeed,  a  place  of  fascination,  the  charm 
of  which  brings  one  back  again  and  again  to  its 
shores. 

"  Indeed,  papa,"  Gladys  wrote,  "  I  have  de 
cided,  after  a  fortnight's  stay  here,  that  it  is  waste 
of  time  for  Americans  to  spend  so  many  years  of 
their  lives  in  roaming  over  Europe,  when  here,  on 
their  own  New  England  coast,  there  is  such  an 
Eden  as  this  !  I  have  come  back  to  my  own 
country  to  fall  in  love  with  it  at  first  sight.  That 
may  be,  as  Madge  tells  me,  because  I  have  come  at 
once  to  the  most  beautiful  spot  in  it,  but,  at  all 
events,  I  cannot  let  you  go  abroad  again  until  you 
have  been  here. 

44 


A    NEW    ROLE    FOR    GLADYS.  45 

"  Such  a  delightful  time  as  I  am  having  !  I 
don't  know  whether  it  is  only  in  Mt.  Desert,  or 
everywhere  in  America,  but  it  seems  to  me  that 
the  young  people  do  enjoy  life  amazingly.  The 
chaperons  look  after  them,  of  course,  and  Aunty 
is  always  on  duty,  but  it  seems  to  me  very  much 
as  if  the  young  men  and  girls  planned  out  the 
days  for  themselves,  and  the  mothers  and  fathers 
fell  into  the  plans  as  if  they  were  the  main  thing 
in  life.  Perhaps  it  is  always  so  in  America. 

" '  Mt.  Desert  is  the  Paradise  of  Youth,  Miss 
Gladys,'  Dr.  Forbes  said  to  me  when  I  made 
some  remark  about  the  pleasant,  easy  way  in  which 
the  young  men  and  girls  meet  here.  He  is  a 
funny,  rather  gruff  old  doctor,  very  caustic  in  his 
remarks,  but  very  kind-hearted,  I  am  sure,  for 
Edith  and  Madge  seem  so  fond  of  him.  He 
spends  his  summers  in  a  lovely  cottage  on  the 
shore,  and  we  see  a  great  deal  of  him.  As  he 
knew  you  when  you  were  a  boy,  he  is  particularly 
kind  to  me,  and  gives  me  queer  descriptions  — 
'  notes  of  warning,'  he  calls  them — about  the  vari 
ous  people  I  meet. 

"Among  the  other  men  and  boys,  most  of 
whom  he  pronounces  'harmless,'  or  'at  best  amus- 


46  A    NEW    ROLE    FOR   GLADYS. 

ing  for  a  fortnight,'  is  a  whole  yacht  full  who  are 
here,  they  say,  for  study,  though  we  think  they 
have  come  to  an  odd  place  for  it.  The  yacht  be 
longs  to  a  certain  Mr.  Ned  Boylston,  a  great  friend 
of  Cousin  Madge's.  He  is  quite  young,  not  yet 
graduated,  and  is  supposed  to  be  studying  very 
hard  for  his  fall  examinations.  He  does  not  look, 
certainly,  as  if  his  studies  wore  upon  him,  for  a 
more  good-natured,  cheery,  fun-loving,  unintellect- 
ual  mortal  I  never  met.  With  him  are  three  class 
mates,  very  much  like  him,  —  'all  run  off  the 
same  mould,'  Dr.  Forbes  says,  with  his  smile  and 
shrug  of  the  shoulders,  —  and  Mr.  Raymond  Linde- 
say  who  is  'coaching'  the  party,  and  who  is  not  in 
the  least  like  them.  I  was  a  little  inclined  to  be 
afraid  of  him  at  first,  for  Madge  holds  him  in  holy 
horror  as  '  fearfully  clever,'  but  the  other  day,  in 
coming  down  Green  Mountain,  we  were  thrown 
together  from  my  walking  with  Dr.  Forbes,  who  is 
very  fond  of  his  company,  and  I  got  over  my  awe. 
He  is  rather  a  strange  fellow;  a  little  proud  and 
shy,  but,  when  he  talks,  very  interesting." 

Here  the  long  schoolgirl  letter  changed  its  note, 
and  the  name  of  Raymond  Lindesay  did  not  again 
appear  in  Gladys'  pages,  but  not  because  its  owner 


A    NEW    R6LE    FOR    GLADYS.  47 

had  ceased  to  interest  her.  Partly  because  she 
was  younger  than  the  other  girls,  partly  because 
the  hail-fellow-well-met  manner  of  these  Ameri 
can  youths  and  maidens  was,  as  yet,  amusing 
rather  than  natural  to  her,  Gladys  held  a  little 
aloof  from  the  college  boys,  and,  however  admired 
for  her  beauty,  was  viewed  with  a  little  shyness 
by  them.  She  liked  to  seek  refuge  with  the  old 
doctor,  and,  from  the  protecting  hedge  of  his 
thorniness,  look  out  laughingly  on  the  others.  So 
in  the  descent  of  Green  Mountain,  Lindesay,  walk 
ing  quickly  and  lightly  like  a  practised  pedestrian, 
came  on  the  pair,  and  gave  the  doctor  his  arm. 

"Where  are  your  charges?"  asked  Dr.  Forbes 
unthinkingly. 

"  Off  my  hands  for  the  present,  thank  Heaven  !  " 
returned  the  young  man  rather  testily.  Then,  as 
Gladys  looked  up,  surprised  by  the  petulant  tone, 
and  the  doctor  raised  his  bushy  gray  eyebrows 
quizzically,  Lindesay  colored. 

"  Excuse  my  impatience.  I  did  not  mean  to 
ask  '  Am  I  my  brother's  keeper  ? '  but  sometimes 
I  am  more  glad  of  play-time  than  study-hours  ! " 

"The  fault  was  mine,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the 
doctor  quietly.  "  I  should  have  known  myself 


48  A    NEW    R6LE    FOR    GLADYS. 

where  the  shoe  pinched.     It  is  hard  goading  un 
willing  horses,  Lindesay." 

"  It  is  not  so  much  that,"  the  young  man  replied  ; 
"  Boylston  and  the  others  are  no  worse  than  many 
I  have  coached.  But  —  I  am  rather  ashamed  to 
confess  it  —  I  feel  a  little  testy  at  times  about 
goading  at  all.  This  is  Nature's  play-time,  and 
a  good  place  she  has  chosen  for  it.  I  should  like, 
sometimes,  to  forget  which  side  my  bread  is  but 
tered,  and  play,  too  !  " 

"Ah!  something  has  rubbed  the  wrong  way," 
thought  Dr.  Forbes.  But  the  fair-haired  girl 
whose  presence  both  had  nearly  forgotten,  was  the 
one  to  reply. 

"Are  you  ashamed  of  teaching?"  she  asked  in 
a  grave,  sweet  tone.  "  That  is  strange  to  me.  I 
should  be  so  proud  of  the  ability ! "  Raymond 
turned  quickly,  with  a  flush  on  his  cheek. 

"Ashamed?"  he  echoed,  half  irritated,  "but, 
yes,  I  was  ashamed,"  he  owned  suddenly,  at  sight 
of  the  fair,  candid  face.  "  Now  I  am  ashamed  of 
being  so  ! " 

"That's  right,"  said  Gladys  simply,  and  the 
pair,  effectually  introduced  by  the  few  sentences 
they  had  exchanged,  looked  curiously  at  each 


A    NEW    ROLE    FOR    GLADYS.  49 

other  across  the  intervening  doctor.  What  Linde- 
say  saw  in  Gladys  we  already  know.  What  she 
saw  in  him  was  a  tall,  rather  delicate-looking 
young  man,  spare,  rather  than  slender,  with  fair 
auburn  coloring,  bright,  keen  dark  eyes,  and  finely- 
cut  mouth  and  chin,  the  former  feature  at  once 
sensitive  and  sarcastic. 

"  Bravo,  little  schoolgirl  !  "  said  the  doctor  ap 
provingly.  "  I  did  not  know  you  dared  scold 
anybody  !  But,  after  all,  what  this  fellow  needs 
scolding  for  is  rather  grinding  the  axe  too  hard 
than  neglecting  it.  You  need  recreation,  my 
boy.  Why  don't  you  take  a  hand  in  all  this  sail 
ing,  dancing,  rowing,  horseback  riding,  tomfool 
ery,  what  not,  that  is  always  going  on  among  the 
young  people  ?  You  haven't  forgotten  how  since 
your  college  days  —  or  if  you  have,  Boylston  will 
teach  you." 

Raymond  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  No  ;  I  have  not  forgotten  ;  but  —  but  I  should 
not  suppose  —  I  hardly  thought  it  in  my  line  just 
now  —  hardly  thought  it  would  be  considered  so, 
I  mean." 

"Consideration  be  hanged!"  said  the  doctor, 
dropping  decorum  in  his  vexation.  "  Conjuring 


5O  A    NEW    R6LE    FOR    GLADYS. 

up  pique,  spleen,  pride  and  dyspepsia  in  this  air ! 
—  Lindesay,  I  am  ashamed  of  you  !  It  would 
take  a  whole  troop  of  blue  devils  to  put  such  no 
tions  into  Boylston's  happy-go-lucky  nature,  I 
think !  Here,  Miss  Gladys,  is  a  fellow  who,  to 
my  certain  recollection,  is  a  first-rate  oarsman, 
dancer  and  athlete,  a  favorite  in  the  ball-room 
when  he  chooses  to  go  there,  and  entertaining  in 
small-talk  when  he  condescends  to  it  —  I  hereby 
hand  him  over  to  you  as  Master  of  Ceremonies  in 
the  gay  world  of  Mt.  Desert.  Tell  him  that  you 
want  to  be  entertained  ;  that  you  are  a  little 
new  in  this  New  World  of  ours,  though  quite  at 
home  in  the  Old  World,  and  ask  him  to  show  you 
the  way  in  it." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  if  he  will  do  it,"  said  Gladys, 
looking  at  him  half-shyly  from  laughing  eyes. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  if  I  may  try,"  returned  the 
young  man ;  and  for  the  rest  of  the  walk,  laying 
aside  the  constrained,  half-bitter  tone  in  which 
he  had  hitherto  spoken,  he  launched  into  a  stream 
of  bright  talk,  so  entertaining,  so  contagious,  that 
Gladys  forgot  her  reserve  and  became  as  gay  as  a 
bird. 

"  Works  to  a  charm  ! "  thought  the  old  doctor 


A    NEW    ROLE    FOR    GLADYS.  5 1 

as  he  trudged  along,  somewhat  ruefully,  behind 
the  more  agile  and  now  completely  absorbed  pair. 
"  I  hope  I  have  done  nothing  which  the  chaper 
ons  would  call  imprudent.  " 

"  That  is  a  more  entertaining  young  man  than 
I  have  ever  met  in  America,"  said  Gladys,  in  the 
demure,  yet  outspoken  way  which  delighted  the 
old  doctor.  "  I  am  sure  there  is  nothing  the 
matter  with  him  except  what  he  fancies." 

"  Exactly  so,  my  dear.  But  Raymond  Lindesay 
is  proud  —  sensitively,  morbidly  so  —  and,  because 
he  is,  his  fancies  are  especially  bad  for  him.  He 
lost,  two  years  ago,  a  father  and  the  expectation 
of  a  fortune  at  the  same  moment ;  more,  he  found 
that  he  had  inherited  debts  and  a  name  which  was 
not  so  unblemished  in  honor  as  he  had  supposed. 
He  gave  up  the  career  which  he  had  planned, 
and  threw  himself,  heart  and  soul,  into  paying 
off  his  father's  old  scores  and  leaving  his  memory 
as  bright  as  might  be.  He  has  worked  like 
a  slave  for  his  mother  and  sisters,  and  will  do 
it,  I  fancy,  all  his  life.  A  noble  fellow,  but  one 
with  a  morbid  streak  —  I  suppose  some  uncharita 
ble  souls  would  call  it  egotism  —  running  through 
him.  He  was  a  prime  favorite  in  society,  and 


52  A    NEW    R6LE    FOR    GLADYS. 

might  be  still,  if  he  would  let  any  one  come  within 
a  mile  of  him.  But  he  is  proud  and  fanciful. 
You  heard  how  he  spoke  of  Boylston — the  most 
good-hearted  boy  alive !  " 

"  What  a  pity  !  "  cried  Gladys.  "  It  is  quite 
unworthy  of  him,  isn't  it  ?  He  must  be,  he  is 
such  a  fine  character." 

"  Well,  get  it  out  of  him  if  you  can,"  said  the 
doctor,  turning  away  from  the  hotel-steps  with  a 
little  twinge  of  conscience.  "  Get  him  to  join  in 
as  many  picnics  and  '  hops  '  as  you  can,  and  if  you 
succeed,  all  the  others  will  thank  you." 

"  I'll  try,"  said  Gladys  heartily,  and  she  ran  up 
the  steps,  feeling  as  if  life  at  Mt.  Desert  were 
more  than  ever  interesting. 


CHAPTER   V. 
"GOLDEN  SUMMER." 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow, 

Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it  ? 
Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  of  the  snow, 

Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it  ? 

BEN  JONSON. 

NEXT  morning  dawned  a  rare  day,  full  of 
golden  sunshine,  warm  as  July  should  be, 
but  with  a  gentle  breeze  rippling  the  blue  water, 
and  making  it  kiss  the  pebbles  with  a  sweeter 
murmur.  Inland,  the  air  was  clear  and  the  scent 
of  the  pines  came  out  in  the  searching  sunshine 
with  aromatic  fragrance  ;  but  out  beyond  the  little 
Porcupine  Islands  a  soft  pink  haze  hung,  closing 
in  like  a  sudden  horizon  round  the  Happy  Isle. 

Gladys,  walking  along  the  lovely  shore  road 
with  a  merry  party  of  girls  and  young  men,  over 
rocks  and  pebbles,  through  rustic  stiles,  and  across 
the  green  lawns  of  charming  cottages,  stopped 
all  at  once  under  a  great  pine-tree. 

S3 


54  "GOLDEN  SUMMER. 

"  Oh,  Madge,  leave  me  here  for  a  while  !  I 
really  want  to  sketch." 

"  On  a  sheet  of  birch  bark  with  a  thorn  for  a 
pencil  ?"  laughed  Madge. 

"  No;  I  have  my  sketch-book." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Lyman,  you  are  incorrigible  !  "  said 
young  Clifford.  "Always  improving  the  shining 
hour  till  we  drones  are  put  to  the  blush  ! " 

"  I  did  not  know  their  complexions  admitted 
of  that,"  said  Gladys,  with  a  twinkling  dimple. 
"No;  I'm  not  so  dreadfully  industrious,  Mr.  Clif 
ford,  but  I  should  like  to  send  papa  that  lovely 
little  peep  across  the  water." 

"  Should  I  be  very  much  in  the  way  if  I  stayed, 
too  ?  "  asked  the  youth.  "  I  could  hold  the  pen 
cils." 

"There's  only  one,"  said  Gladys,  "and  I'm 
afraid  I  should  not  be  an  entertaining  companion 
if  I  were  sketching.  No,  Mr  Clifford,  you  will 
find  it  a  great  deal  more  amusing  to  walk  on  with 
the  others.  I  will  be  quite  ready  when  you  come 
back,  Madge." 

But  Madge's  red  parasol,  and  young  Boylston 
who  was  holding  it  over  her  head,  were  already 
far  in  advance.  Gladys  threw  herself  down  under 


"GOLDEN  SUMMER.'  55 

the  great  pine-tree,  half-reproving  herself  for  the 
satisfaction  with  which  she  watched  poor  Clifford's 
reluctantly  retiring  footsteps,  but  feeling  dimly 
that  his  platitudes  and  laborious  gallantry  would 
have  been  a  profanation  of  the  summer  morning. 
For  a  time  she  sat  quite  still,  luxuriating  in  the 
deep  shadow  of  the  pine,  the  whisper  of  the  waves 
as  they  broke  on  the  tiny  pebbled  beach  at  the 
foot  of  the  cliff,  and  the  mingled  breath  of  wood 
and  sea.  Then,  drawing  sketch-book  and  pencil 
from  her  pocket,  she  fell  industriously  to  work. 
At  first  she  was  too  much  absorbed  in  her  occupa 
tion  to  notice  more  than  her  immediate  surround- 
ings,  but  presently,  leaning  farther  forward  in  her 
study  of  the  little  islands,  she  spied,  at  the  foot  of 
the  cliff,  the  straw  hat  of  a  young  man.  Some 
thing  in  his  attitude  as  he  lounged  on  the  pebbles, 
turning  the  leaves  of  a  book,  made  her  look  again. 
It  was  Raymond  Lindesay. 

"Now,  why,"  said  Gladys  to  herself  with  a 
twinge  of  vexation  that  was  almost  laughable,  "is 
he  not  walking  with  the  others,  or  sailing  with 
Mr.  Marston  and  Henry  Follen  ?  None  of  the 
party  are  studying,  I  know.  Either  of  those 
things  would  be  better  for  him  than  poring  over 


56  "GOLDEN  SUMMER." 

a  book.  I  suppose  he  persuaded  himself  that  they 
did  not  want  him  !  " 

She  watched  him  with  growing  concern  and 
a  naive  sense  of  responsibility.  The  reader,  all 
unconscious  of  the  scrutiny,  presently  raised  his 
hat,  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  sighed,  and 
turned  back  with  rather  a  listless  air  to  the  book. 

"  I  don't  believe  it  interests  him,"  said  Gladys 
to  herself,  "  and  there  is  nothing  worse  for  the 
mind  than  forced  attention." 

With  a  sudden  impulse  of  mischief  she  pulled  a 
pine-cone  from  the  branch  nearest  her,  and  let  it 
fall  on  the  straw  hat  ;  then,  much  shocked  by  her 
own  boldness,  drew  far  back  from  the  edge  of  the 
cliff.  When  she  ventured  to  peep  again,  Lindesay 
had  closed  the  book  ;  he  lay  stretched  on  the  peb 
bles,  idly  playing  with  the  pine-cone  and  watching 
the  waves.  Gladys  worked  busily  at  her  sketch, 
glad  that  her  unwonted  bit  of  mischief  had  escaped 
detection,  but  wishing  that  he  would  come  up  and 
join  her. 

Meanwhile,  Lindesay,  not  in  truth,  as  Gladys  had 
divined,  much  interested  in  his  book,  had  chanced, 
in  raising  his  eyes,  to  spy  the  broad  hat  and  busy 
fingers  above,  but,  not  catching  sight  of  the  face 


"GOLDEN    SUMMER."  57 

under  the  deep  shade,  had  only  turned  back  to  the 
water  with  a  half-annoyed  "  Impossible  to  be  alone 
on  this  shore  !  "  Presently,  however,  another  up 
ward  glance  revealed  Gladys'  fair  face  and  light 
curling  locks  under  the  broad  brim  just  then 
opportunely  raised  for  a  gaze  at  the  islands.  He 
sprang  to  his  feet  with  alacrity. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Lyman  !  May  I  come 
up  ? " 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  are  coming  at  last,"  said 
Gladys  demurely.  "  I  think  you  have  been  sitting 
long  enough  with  that  book  in  your  hand." 

"  What,  you  have  been  watching  me  ?  "  with  an 
amused  laugh  as  he  climbed  up  the  bank,  and 
threw  himself  on  the  grass  beside  her. 

"  Oh,  no  !  sketching.  But  I  saw  you,  and  wished, 
—  wished  —  " 

"  What  ? "  asked  Raymond  curiously,  as  she  hesi 
tated. 

"  That  you  knew  a  little  better  what  was  good 
for  you !  You  work  hard  over  those  unstudious 
young  men ;  now,  don't  you  know  that  when  re 
cess  comes,  you  ought  to  walk  or  sail  or  do  any 
thing  but  read  all  alone  ?  " 

"Very  likely,"  said  the  young  man,  not  loath  to 


58  "GOLDEN  SUMMER." 

argue  the  case  with  such  an  opponent,  "but  there 
are  two  things  to  be  considered.  First,  the  read 
ing  must  be  done  sometime,  and  secondly,  solitude 
is  a  necessity  when  one's  society  is  not  in  demand." 

"  Mr.  Lindesay  !  "  cried  Gladys,  suspending  her 
pencil  over  the  sketch  and  looking,  in  her  eager 
ness,  extraordinarily  bright  and  earnest,  "  that,  I 
am  sure,  is  a  morbid  fancy !  You  think  you  are 
shunned,  and  that  makes  your  manner  repellent. 
Just  promise  me  that  you  will  try  for  one  week 
taking  your  share  in  whatever  is  doing,  and  I  am 
sure  you  will  find  yourself  welcomed.  The  fault  is 
yours.  Do  promise  me  !  " 

"Willingly,  if  you  ask  so  earnestly,"  said  Linde 
say,  looking  smilingly  into  the  eager  face,  "but 
why  should  you  care  ?  " 

"Because,"  said  Gladys,  coloring,  "Dr.  Forbes 
says  —  and  I  see  for  myself,  too  —  that  you  are 
doing  yourself  harm.  But  it  will  be  different  in 
the  future,"  pleadingly,  "for  you  have  promised  to 
amuse  me.  As  for  this  book,"  —  she  bent  forward 
to  take  it  from  the  grass  where  it  lay, —  "  Italian 
—  do  you  care  so  much  to  read  that  ? " 

"I  must;  that's  all." 

"Must?"    cried    Gladys,    with    pretty   disdain 


"  GOLDEN    SUMMER.  59 

"  Ought,  perhaps,  and  so  ought  I  to  be  reading 
it,  I  suppose,  for  I  seldom  do,  and  I  do  not  read 
well,  though  I  can  speak  it  easily." 

"  Can  you  ?  "  asked  the  young  man  with  interest ; 
"  I  wish  you  would  sometimes  talk  with  me." 

"  But  I  will,"  said  Gladys,  her  eyes  lighting  up 
with  sudden  pleasure,  "if  only  you  will  go  about 
with  us  that  we  may  have  things  to  talk  about. 
Promise,  Mr.  Lindesay  —  it  is  a  duty  !  " 

"No  duty"  returned  the  young  man,  "but  a 
pleasure  to  please  you,  so  I  promise,  and  will  begin 
with  the  'hop'  to-night.  Now,  Miss  Lyman,  de 
fine  your  use  of  the  word  duty." 

"It  is  a  duty,"  said  Gladys  gravely,  "to  use  all 
the  talents  one  has  and  not  to  wrap  any  up  in  a 
napkin.  If  we  have  powers  of  entertaining,  we 
are  bound  to  use  them." 

"I  defy  you  to  tell  me  why." 

"Wait  until  I  try,"  said  the  girl,  smiling,  and 
coloring  again,  but  with  a  pretty  look  of  child-like 
earnestness  in  her  face,  as  if  she  had  been  asked  a 
hard  question  at  school  and  were  anxious  not  to 
fail.  "  It  is  a  duty  to  others,  of  course,  because  it 
helps  to  make  life  happier  and  brighter ;  and  to 
ourselves,  I  think,  because  —  " 


60  "GOLDEN  SUMMER." 

"Because,  from  a  point  of  worldly  wisdom,  it 
makes  it  easier  for  us  to  get  on  in  the  world.  Oh  ! 
if  you  fall  back  on  policy,  Miss  Lyman,  I  may  per 
haps  agree  with  you." 

"I  had  no  such  thought  in  my  mind  at  all,"  she 
answered  eagerly.  "  I  was  going  to  say  that  for 
ourselves  it  is  best  because  it  helps  to  make  us 
loved.  Now  that  I  have  said  it,  it  sounds  like  some 
'goody '  saying  in  a  book,"  reddening  with  vexation, 
"and  not  at  all  as  I  mean  it,  but  at  least  you  do 
not  think  it  a  bad  or  politic  motive  ? " 

"  What,  the  wish  to  be  loved  ?  No,  you  sweet 
child !  "  said  Lindesay  impulsively,  flushing  a  little 
the  next  moment  at  his  own  words  ;  but  Gladys' 
face  had  been  irresistible.  "  I  beg  your  pardon  for 
my  impertinence,"  he  added. 

Gladys,  too,  had  colored,  but  not  with  vexation. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  angry,"  she  said  simply.  "  I 
have  no  doubt  I  do  seem  a  very  silly  child,  espe 
cially  when  I  try  to  lecture  other  people  about  life 
of  which  I  know  so  little  myself.  Only  I  am 
clear  in  this  one  thing,  Mr.  Lindesay,  that  your 
way  isn't  the  right  one,  and  I  am  so  glad  you  are 
willing  to  try  mine.  You  promised  to  begin  to 
night,  remember." 


"GOLDEN  SUMMER."  61 

"  It  is  a  compact." 

The  Italian  book  was  not  resumed,  though  the 
sketch  was,  and,  when  the  walking  party  returned, 
and  Lindesay  as  well  as  Gladys  joined  it,  it  was 
in  such  a  different  mood  from  usual  —  a  mood  so 
overflowing  with  fun,  and  what  Madge  was  pleased 
to  call  "  nonsense  talk,"  that  she  opened  wide  eyes 
of  amazement,  wondering,  mentally,  what  "Gladys 
had  done  to  help  Mr.  Lindesay  off  his  stilts." 
Young  Clifford,  too,  disposed,  at  first,  to  resent 
the  usurpation  of  the  post  to  which  he  had  aspired, 
quickly  mollified  under  the  influence  of  Raymond's 
unwontedly  affable  mood,  and  showed  himself  the 
amiable,  if  not  brilliant,  youth  he  was.  Nor  was 
Madge's  astonishment  diminished  by  the  experi 
ences  of  the  "hop"  that  evening. 

"  Really,"  she  remarked  to  Edith,  as  she  pre 
pared  for  bed,  shaking  each  article  vigorously  as 
she  took  it  off,  and  walking  round  and  round  the 
rather  circumscribed  space,  "  I  begin  now  to  under 
stand  the  meaning  of  the  word  '  regeneration  '  ! 
Raymond  Lindesay  has  opened  my  eyes.  I  don't 
mean  that  he  has,  to  my  knowledge,  'experienced 
religion.'  Edith,  do  you  think  one  could  make  use 
of  such  a  phrase  as  'experiencing  frivolity  '  ?  " 


62  "GOLDEN  SUMMER." 

"  What  are  you  talking  of,  Madge  ?  " 

"  Of  Gladys'  mysterious  influence  ;  but  I  scarcely 

expected  you  to  get  hold  of  the  clue !  " 
"  Are  you  sure  you  have  it  yourself  ?  " 
"  I'm  groping  for  it,"  returned  Madge  from  the 

depths  of  her  bureau  drawer. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT. 

All  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar)1 
Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue, 
Till  my  friends  have  said 

They  would  fain  see,  too, 
My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue ! 
.     .     .     What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world  ? 
Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me ;  therefore  I  love  it. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 

AND    Gladys  will  make  the  sixth  —  you  will 
go,  of  course  ?  " 

Madge  turned  to  her  cousin  as  she  came  out  on 
the  hotel  piazza,  to  join  the  gay  after-breakfast 
group  of  girls. 

"  Perhaps  so,  when  I  know  where." 

"  Oh  !  in  a  sail-boat  to  Sullivan,  this  af  :ernoon 

—  it's   the  proper  thing  to  go  over  to  the  silver 

mines,    you    know,"    replied    Madge,    always    too 

much  in  a  hurry  to  be  very  lucid  in  her  explana- 

63 


64  A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT. 

tions.  "  It  is  Anna's  party.  She  and  Mr.  Clifford, 
Mr.  Pollen,  and  Mr.  Boylston,  who  is  quite  at 
home  on  the  water,  are  going,  so  you  need  not 
be  afraid.  You  will  go  ?" 

"  No,  I  think  not,"  said  Gladys,  hesitating,  and 
glancing  at  her  elder  cousin,  who  sat  by  with  her 
embroidery.  "  Oh  no  !  I  can't,"  with  an  air  of 
relief,  "it  is  my  Italian  afternoon." 

"Italian  afternoon!"  said  Anna  curiously, 
"  why,  who  gives  lessons  here  ?"  and  Edith  looked 
up  quickly  from  her  work. 

"  Not  lessons,  exactly,"  said  Gladys,  coloring 
a  little  under  the  publicity  of  the  examination  ; 
"Mr.  Lindesay  and  I  read  and  talk  Italian  together 
on  Tuesday  afternoons,  and  I  would  rather  not  go, 
thank  you." 

"  I  scarcely  think  you  need  mind  that,  my  dear," 
said  Edith,  in  the  quiet,  incisive  tone  Gladys  had 
learned  to  interpret  as  conveying  a  hint  of  inde 
corum  to  Madge,  "if  that  is  all.  It  can  scarcely 
be  a  regular  engagement,  as  we  have  not  heard  of 
it  before,  and  it  would  be  very  easy  to  explain  to 
Mr.  Lindesay  if  explanation  should  be  necessary." 

"  And  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  mamma's  object 
ing,"  said  outspoken  Madge,  "  though  we  must 


A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT.  65 

start  before  she  gets  back  from  her  excursion. 
As  Anna  is  sister  to  one  of  the  young  men,  it 
makes  her  a  sort  of  chaperon,  don't  you  see  ? " 

"  And  there  is  always  safety  in  numbers,"  said 
Anna,  with  the  slight  sneer  Gladys  disliked  so 
much.  "You  will  be  much  safer  with  us,  I  assure 
you,  than  if  you  kept  your  land  engagement. 
Will  is  depending  on  your  joining  the  party.  You 
will  say  yes  ?  " 

"  Since  it  seems  to  be  already  arranged,"  said 
Gladys,  turning  away  with  a  shade  of  vexation  on 
her  fair  face. 

"  And  I  will  make  your  excuses  to  Mr.  Lindesay 
if  I  meet  him  on  my  way  back,"  said  Anna.  "  Come, 
Madge." 

The  gay  chatting  group  sauntered  off  along  the 
shore,  the  light  dresses  and  bright  parasols  glinting 
in  and  out  among  the  trees,  but  Gladys  still  lin 
gered  beside  Edith.  She  was  not  apt  to  be  so 
easily  persuaded  against  her  will,  but  something  in 
her  cousin's  glance  had  seemed  to  convey  a  reproof, 
and  Gladys,  though  all  unconscious  of  ill-doing,  had 
been  too  proud  to  persist  in  her  purpose.  Edith 
waited  until  the  party  were  quite  out  of  hearing 
and  the  piazza  free  from  all  possible  eavesdroppers. 


66  A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT. 

"  Were  you  really  afraid  that  mamma  might  not 
think  it  just  the  thing  to  go,  Gladys  ?" 

"I  thought  of  it,  —  but  girls  do  so  many  things 
here  that  seem  to  me  a  little  strange." 

"  But,  my  dear,"  said  Edith,  with  a  superior 
smile,  "that  is  just  the  reason  why  you  may  do 
them  !  Of  course  one  always  does  at  Rome  some 
what  as  the  Romans  do,  and  water  parties  among 
the  girls  and  young  men  are  every-day  affairs  at 
Bar  Harbor,  while  no  one  reads  Italian  with  Mr. 
Lindesay,  Gladys." 

"  There  is  surely  nothing  improper  in  that,"  said 
Gladys,  flushing  hotly.  "  It  came  about  very  nat 
urally,  Edith,  and  I  never  thought  to  speak  of  it. 
I  seem  like  a  schoolgirl  to  Mr.  Lindesay,  I  sup 
pose,  and  as  I  speak  Italian,  and  he  wished  to  learn 
to  talk  —  but  I  am  sorry  I  mentioned  it !  " 

"  I  am  sure  mamma  will  be  very  glad,"  replied 
Edith,  sententiously.  "  Of  course  you  did  not  think 
of  it,  my  dear,  but,  in  a  place  like  this,  one  can't  be 
too  careful  about  exciting  gossip." 

"  I  trust  I  never  may,  indeed  !  "  rejoined  Gladys, 
turning  into  the  house  with  a  choking  sensation 
in  her  throat.  She  took  a  book  and  strolled  down 
on  the  bank  within  sight  of  the  house,  for  she  felt 


A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT.  6/ 

too  indignant,  just  then,  to  remain  placidly  seated 
beside  her  cousin.  It  was  not  entirely  for  the  dis 
appointment  about  the  reading,  oh,  no !  though 
Tuesday  afternoons  had  been  very  pleasant  for  the 
last  six  weeks.  It  was  because  Edith  with  her 
elder-sister  air  of  propriety,  and  Anna,  with  her 
stare  and  laugh,  had  conspired  to  carry  to  Gladys' 
mind  a  thought  which  had  never  before  been 
there.  To  her  Mr.  Lindesay  was,  indeed,  dif 
ferent  from  the  other  young  men — different  in 
being  older,  more  intellectual,  superior  in  every 
way  —  different,  too,  in  being  unhappy.  Had  not 
Dr.  Forbes  himself  told  her  she  must  try  to  win 
him  from  that  morbid  shrinking  into  himself,  and 
had  she  not  been  filled  with  happy  pride  that  she 
had  so  far  succeeded  ?  And  now  was  all  to  be 
spoiled  by  foolish  thoughts  of  self? 

The  Italian  reading  had  not  formed  the  only  sub 
ject  of  conversation,  though  it  had  been  too  great  a 
pleasure  to  Lindesay  to  hear  Gladys'  pure,  musical 
tones  for  that  to  be  thrown  aside.  Some  pages 
of  the  Inferno  always  began  the  interview ;  then 
talk  naturally  followed.  Discussion  of  the  great 
Florentine  paved  the  way  for  other  authors  ;  from 
individual  preferences  in  reading  to  other  personal 


68  A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT. 

peculiarities  or  experiences  was  a  short  and  easy 
transition.  Gladys  had  been  at  first  surprised  to 
find  'how  good  a  linguist  Raymond  was,  then  de 
lighted  to  see  how  easily  he  caught  the  liquid 
accents  from  her  lips,  and  ho\v  soon  it  seemed  to  be 
as  natural  to  him  as  it  was  to  herself  to  be  talking 
Italian.  Occasionally,  too,  after  reading  to  her 
some  passage  from  an  English  author,  he  would 
unconsciously  fall  back  into  the  same  language, 
and  she  would  scarcely  notice  it. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  thought  me  a  very  peevish 
animal  the  first  time  we  met,  Miss  Lyman,"  he 
said,  laughingly,  one  day.  "  Don't  you  remem 
ber?"  for  she  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  her  pretty 
eyebrows  raised.  "  The  time  when  you  lectured 
me  about  being  ashamed  of  teaching  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes  !  but  I  did  not  think  you  in  the  least 
peevish.  I  really  wondered  that  any  one  should  be 
sorry  to  have  the  opportunity  for  using  a  power." 

"  And  I,"  said  Lindesay,  with  a  half-sigh,"  was 
grumbling  because  that  very  necessity  of  teaching 
hampered  me  in  other  opportunities,  or  what 
might  have  been  opportunities." 

"  I  understand  a  little  better  now,"  said  Gladys, 
shyly.  li  1  mean  that  Dr.  Forbes  has  told  me 


A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT.  69 

something  about  you.  Mr.  Lindesay,  you  will  tell 
me,  please,  if  I  speak  of  things  that  are  distaste 
ful  to  you,  but  I  have  always  looked  at  these  mat 
ters  so  differently.  I  always  thought  that  riches, 
not  poverty,  were  hampering.  I  thought  they 
prevented  people  from  developing  all  the  fine 
traits  of  character  or  talents  they  might  possess 
by  making  things  too  easy." 

"  It  is  so  in  a  degree,  I  suppose,"  said  Lindesay, 
thoughtfully.  "  Our  best  is  always  developed 
more  fully  for  some  struggle  ;  but  there  is  another 
side  to  it.  If  a  man  be  born  poor,  and  has  to 
hammer  his  way  up,  as  it  were,  forging  the  satis 
faction  of  his  tastes  out  of  the  hunger  and  thirst 
for  knowledge  that  is  in  him,  I  have  no  doubt  that 
he  has  all  the  finer  mind,  all  the  higher  character 
for  that  wrestle  with  fortune.  But  if,  on  the  other 
hand,  one  has  begun  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  and 
come  by  inheritance  to  the  tastes  and  yearnings 
of  generations  of  ancestors — bred  in  the  bone, 
one  might  say  —  then  the  struggle  for  the  mere 
necessities  of  life  comes  hard.  Then  it  is  not 
only  hampering  —  it  may  be  even  belittling  —  ay, 
demoralizing !  " 

He  was  speaking  rather  to  himself  than  Gladys, 


/O  A    CHAJCCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT. 

and  with  a  bitterness  of  which  he  was  probably 
unconscious.  She  listened  intently,  and  the  tears 
suddenly  rose  in  her  eyes.  "That  is  true,"  she 
said,  "I  did  not  think  of  it  so,  and  yet  —  oh,  Mr. 
Lindesay,  riches  are  such  an  accident !  " 

"  A  happy  accident,"  returned  the  young  man, 
lightly,  for  the  sight  of  Gladys'  earnest  face  and 
tearful  eyes  had  recalled  him,  with  a  slight  sensa 
tion  of  shame,  to  himself.  "  But  do  not  take  it  so 
seriously,  Miss  Lyman.  I  am  a  very  unmannerly, 
if  not  unmanly  fellow  to  have  put  such  thoughts 
into  your  head.  Many  a  better  man  than  I  has 
come  to  his  best  in  spite  of  everything  that  fate 
could  do  against  him  !  And  then  think  of  all  the 
possibilities  fortune  may  have  in  store  for  me  !  " 

"What,  for  instance?"  said  the  girl,  fixing  her 
eyes  on  him  with  an  intent  look  of  hopefulness 
which  was  very  fascinating  to  the  young  man. 

"  Oh  !  some  windfall  in  the  form  of  a  legacy,  per 
haps,  or  shall  we  say  a  marriage  with  an  heiress  ?  " 

Gladys  shook  her  head  emphatically,  answering 
in  the  same  light  tone,  "  No,  indeed  ;  that  would  be 
worse  than  anything  !  That,  I  am  sure,  there  is 
no  danger  of  unless  you  should  happen  to  be  very 
much  in  love  with  an  heiress  and  then  —  " 


A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT.  /I 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  Then,  of  course,  the  fact  of  her  being  an  heir 
ess  would  make  no  difference  at  all." 

"  Exactly  so,"  said  Lindesay.  "  Yes,  Miss  Ly- 
man,  that  would,  indeed,  be  worse  than  anything, 
but  have  no  fears  for  me.  One  of  these  days  I 
will  give  you  some  of  my  views  on  the  subject 
of  worldly  marriages."  And  so  the  pair  had  re 
turned  to  the  Inferno. 

Now  all  this  had  seemed  to  Gladys  so  natural, 
looking  upon  Lindesay  as  she  had,  hitherto,  as  an 
interesting  character  far  removed  from  herself  by 
age  and  experience,  but  if,  as  Edith  had  hinted, 
there  were  food  for  Bar  Harbor  gossip  in  their 
intercourse  —  how  very  different  it  all  became ! 

But  Mrs.  Stanhope's  pupil  was  not  prone  to 
morbid  self-consciousness,  and  long  before  Madge's 
summons  from  the  piazza  to  "  Come  and  put  on 
her  boating  dress,  for  we  must  start  right  after 
dinner,"  Gladys  was  happily  absorbed  in  her  book, 
Raymond  Lindesay  forming  only  the  background 
to  a  sunny  present  and  a  hopeful  future. 

Nor  could  the  sail  to  Sullivan  be  otherwise  than 
a  delight  to  a  girl  who  revelled  in  blue  skies,  bright 
waves  and  sunshine,  and  the  exhilaration  of  flying 


/2  A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT. 

before  the  wind  in  a  light  boat  that  danced  like 
a  feather  on  the  water.  Gladys  was  as  animated 
as  any  of  the  party,  and  Anna  Clifford,  who  had 
her  own  reasons  for  shrewd  observation,  might 
have  been  satisfied,  for  any  appearance  to  the 
contrary,  that  her  brother  was  an  all-sufficing  en 
tertainer. 

Sullivan  was  reached  long  before  their  expecta 
tions  with  such  favoring  conditions  of  wind  and 
water.  After  a  turn  through  the  great  parlor  and 
wide  piazzas,  just  now  deserted  by  boarders  with 
a  tendency  to  after-dinner  naps,  and  left  to  the 
possession  of  a  few  nurses  and  wakeful  children, 
the  mines  naturally  recurred  to  their  thoughts,  and 
the  merry  party  drove  off  in  an  open  wagon. 

What  the  prospect  of  ore  from  the  Sullivan 
mines  may  be,  or  whether  more  silver  is  likely  to 
be  sunk  or  raised  in  the  undertaking,  it  is  not  my 
purpose  to  state  ;  but,  as  Madge  was  of  a  nature  to 
drain  the  cup  of  enjoyment  to  the  dregs,  and 
Anna,  inclined  to  investigate  everything  thor 
oughly,  it  was  already  late  when  the  party  returned 
to  the  hotel. 

The  piazza  was  filled  now  with  chatterers  or  prom- 
enaders  who  looked  in  through  the  open  windows 


A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT.  73 

as  the  three  fresh-looking  girls  in  their  pretty  boat 
ing-suits  strolled,  with  their  flannel-shirted  escorts, 
through  the  deserted  parlor  and  grouped  about  the 
piano. 

"  What  a  lovely  girl  that  is  in  the  green  flannel 
suit  and  little  Tyrolese  hat ! "  said  a  white-haired 
lady  to  a  bearded  gentleman,  her  son.  "  One  of 
the  Bar  Harbor  party,  did  you  say  ?  Dear  me ! 
what  time  do  those  young  people  expect  to  get 
back  this  evening  ?  How  uneasy  I  should  be  if  I 
were  that  girl's  mother  !  " 

"  Be  glad  you  are  not ! "  said  her  companion 
laughingly,  with  a  careless  glance  over  his  shoulder 
at  the  occupants  of  the  parlor.  "  Although  if  you 
were  you  would  probably  catch  the  prevailing  tone 
of  Bar  Harbor  chaperons  and  be  sure  that  every 
thing  would  be  all  right  in  the  end  !" 

(Evidently  this  gentleman  had  made  extensive 
studies  in  the  "  Summer  School  of  Philosophy " 
some  years  in  advance  of  the  author  of  that  clever 
little  pencil  satire.) 

"  Don't  give  yourself  a  moment's  uneasiness, 
mother,"  he  repeated.  "Take  my  word  for  it,  that 
sail-boat  will  reach  her  destination  safely." 

"  Perhaps  she  may,  but  I  really  wish  they  would 


74  A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT. 

start !  I  must  go  and  sit  near  the  window  and 
find  out  whether  they  are  not  talking  of  going  — 
I  daresay  they  have  no  idea  of  the  hour  !  " 

"Very  probably  not,  and  they  will  not  thank 
you  for  reminding  them,"  said  her  son.  Remon 
strance,  however,  was  useless,  and  Gladys,  seated 
on  the  piano  stool,  was  suddenly  aware  of  an  anxious 
face  on  the  fast-darkening  background  of  the  win 
dow  frame,  looking  at  her  with  friendly  interest 
from  a  halo  of  black  lace  and  white  hair. 

"  Oh  !  it  isn't  half  time  to  start  yet,"  young  Pollen 
was  saying.  "  There  will  be  a  moon  later.  Won't 
you  dance,  Miss  Lyman  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,  not  here,  I  think.  But  I  will 
play  for  you,  if  you  like  to  dance."  And  the  two 
couples  were  soon  whirling  about  the  room  with 
the  supreme  disregard  of  all  on-lookers  peculiar  to 
very  young  and  buoyant  Americans,  peculiar  espe 
cially,  so  Mr.  Warner  would  tell  us,  at  this  particu 
lar  stopping-place  in  "Their  Pilgrimage." 

Will  Clifford  stood  leaning  on  the  piano,  and 
trying  at  intervals  to  soften  Gladys'  resolve  of  not 
dancing. 

"You  have  a  long  sail  before  you,"  said  the 
watcher  on  the  piazza,  at  last.  "  Perhaps  your 


A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT.  75 

friends  do  not  know  how  late  it  is.  Don't  you  think 
it  would  be  better  to  sail  without  waiting  for  the 
moon  ?  Excuse  my  interference,  my  dear,  but 
having  daughters  at  home  makes  me  interested  in 
all  young  people." 

"Oh!  thank  you,"  said  Gladys  gratefully,  drop 
ping  her  hands  at  once  from  the  keys.  "  I  don't 
believe  they  do  know  how  late  it  is.  Madge,  we 
really  ought  to  start !  " 

"  It  is  growing  dark  very  fast,"  added  the  anx 
ious  Mentor,  "  and  they  tell  me  squalls  are  so  fre 
quent  in  this  locality." 

"  What  an  old  worry  !  "  said  Madge,  aside  to 
her  partner ;  but  the  note  of  alarm  had  been 
sounded,  and  the  six  were  speedily  on  the  wing 
for  the  little  pier  where  their  boat  was  moored, 
Gladys  completely  winning  the  old  lady's  heart  by 
her  sweet  voice  and  graceful  words  of  thanks  at 
parting. 

"  I  was  sure,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  triumph  as 
she  rejoined  her  son,  "  that  that  lovely  girl  was 
not  one  of  those  wild  Daisy  Millers  you  are  always 
telling  me  about  !  But  I  shall  expect  to  hear  that 
that  sail-boat  has  gone  to  the  bottom  !  " 

Meanwhile  other  anxious  souls  on  the  opposite 


76  A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT. 

shore  were  beginning  to  awaken  to' the  fact  that  it 
was  growing  dark,  and  a  wild,  somewhat  gusty 
darkness,  too,  while  nothing  was  heard  or  seen 
of  the  little  "  Ariel."  Mrs.  Waterston,  shrouded 
in  her  shawl,  peered,  for  the  twentieth  time,  at 
least,  from  the  piazza. 

"  How  could  you  let  them  go,  Edith  ?  "  she 
asked,  again  and  again. 

"Dear  mamma,"  replied  the  long-suffering 
daughter,  "  could  I  have  prevented  the  party  ? 
How  many  times  Madge  has  gone  on  afternoon 
sails  and  come  back  safely  !  " 

"  Yes  —  but  Gladys  —  " 

"  I  thought  you  agreed  with  me,  that  it  was 
much  better  for  her  to  go  than  to  read,  as  she 
proposed,  with  - 

"  Yes,  I  know  I  did.  Oh  dear  !  what  a  care 
girls  are  !  I  do  particularly  feel  the  responsibility 
of  Gladys  on  your  uncle's  account,  and  what  you 
told  me  this  afternoon  distresses  me.  Your  uncle 
Gordon  will  hold  me  responsible  for  every  ineli 
gible  acquaintance." 

"Mamma,"  said  her  prudent  daughter,  in  alarm, 
"  do  take  care  not  to  use  such  a  word  in  connec 
tion  with  Mr.  Lindesay  to  Gladys.  Remember 


A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT.  77 

what  a  child  she  is  ;  and  I  am  sure  she  had  no 
thought  that  there  was  anything  unusual  in  the 
reading.  She  was  quite  indignant  with  me  for 
hinting  at  such  an  idea." 

"Then  why  worry  me  so  about  it?"  cried  the 
poor  inconsistent  chaperon.  "  Why  not  let  her 
read  like  a  schoolgirl,  since  she  is  one?  That 
would,  surely,  be  better  than  letting  her  drown 
under  our  very  eyes.  Do,  Edith,  ask  Charles  to  go 
down  to  the  pier  again  and  see  if  the  boat  is  in.!  " 

Nor  were  those  on  the  hotel  piazza,  the  only 
anxious  hearts,  though  the  possessors  might  be 
less  voluble  in  pouring  forth  their  plaints  than 
Mrs.  Waterston.  It  had  been  a  long  afternoon  to 
Raymond  Lindesay  ;  he  had  grown  to  look  forward 
with  anticipation  to  the  Tuesday  readings  with  the 
fresh,  charming  girl,  to  plan  out  little  deviations 
from  their  usual  course,  and  to  speculate  as  to  how 
Gladys  would  look  when  he  should  say  thus  and  so, 
or  what  she  would  reply  to  this  and  that.  So  it 
had  been  a  disappointment  when  Miss  Clifford, 
passing  him  on  the  shore  road  with  a  pleasant 
"  Good-morning  !  "  had  turned  back  with  a  hasty  : 
"Oh,  Mr.  Lindesay!  I  promised  to  tell  you,  if  I 
should  meet  you,  that  Miss  Lyman  will  not  be  able" 


78  A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT. 

to  read  Italian  with  you  this  afternoon.  We  have 
persuaded  her,  sorely  against  her  will,  I  assure  you, 
to  go  on  a  sailing-party  to  Sullivan." 

"  I  trust  she  would  not  allow  our  engagement  to 
prevent  her  from  carrying  out  her  wishes  at  any 
time,"  said  Raymond  a  little  stiffly.  At  heart  he 
was  vexed  that  the  Italian  reading  should  have 
been  spoken  of  in  public. 

"  No  ;  but  her  heart  seemed  quite  set  on  keeping 
the  appointment  with  you  —  what  a  charming  child 
she  is,  by  the  way  !  "  said  Anna,  warmly.  "  Do 
you  find  her  a  promising  pupil,  Mr.  Lindesay  ?  " 

"  Really,"  said  Raymond,  still  with  a  shade  of 
annoyance  in  his  tone,  "  I  am  rather  the  pupil 
than  she.  Miss  Lyman  speaks  Italian  perfectly, 
and  I  have  been  wholly  the  gainer,  so  far." 

"  Indeed  !  "  Anna  exclaimed  with  a  sharp  twinge 
of  envy.  "  However,  that  is  only  natural  since  she 
is  just  out  of  the  school-room.  The  novelty  to  her, 
I  suppose,  is  the  gayety  which  we  older  ones  are 
getting  the  least  bit  tired  of.  So,  by  and  by,  when 
Miss  Lyman  finds  something  that  really  interests 
her,  as  all  of  us  do,  sooner  or  later,  at  Mt.  Desert, 
don't  forget  what  a  delightful  variety  some  pursuit 
a  little  more  solid  would  be  to  us  who  have  had  our 


A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT.  79 

share  of  the  froth.  Good-morning  !  if  you  will  not 
come  in."  And  Anna  turned  into  the  gate  of  her 
father's  cottage,  leaving  Raymond  less  inclined, 
after  all,  to  be  vexed  than  flattered.  In  some*  sen 
sitive  natures  vanity  is  not  the  fibre  least  keenly 
alive  to  friction. 

When  he  returned  to  the  yacht  for  the  every 
day  five  o'clock  reading  with  his  pupils,  only  Mars- 
ton  and  one  other  student  were  there.  Tea-time 
came  and  went  without  the  reappearance  of  Boyl- 
ston  and  Pollen  ;  but  that,  after  all,  was  natural, 
since  tea  at  the  hotel  was  probably  part  of  the 
programme.  The  two  students  strolled  off  to  drop 
in,  as  usual,  during  the  evening  at  some  of  the 
cottage  door-step  parties,  and  Raymond,  left  alone, 
with  little  inclination  for  indifferent  calls,  walked 
the  deck  of  the  yacht  and  studied  the  sky. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  in  a  dark  bank  of  cloud, 
flecked  with  angry  streaks  of  red. 

"  Squally  night,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  crew,  touch 
ing  his  cap  as  he  passed  Raymond. 

"The  little  'Ariel'  isn't  in  yet,  is  she?"  he 
asked  abruptly. 

"No,  sir;  Cap'n  Wilkins  was  down  just  now 
lookin'  out  for  her.  Hope  Mr.  Boylston  hasn't 


8O  A    CHANCE    RAY    OF   LIGHT. 

any  ladies  along  to-night  ?  He'll  have  enough  to 
do  to  keep  the  boat  right  side  up." 

Lindesay,  by  no  means  reassured  by  this  predic 
tion,  hastened  forthwith  to  the  Waterstons'  hotel, 
not,  indeed,  with  the  idea  of  asking  for  the  safety 
of  Mrs.  Waterston's  niece  and  daughter,  but  of  sat 
isfying  himself,  by  less  direct  means,  as  to  the 
amount  of  anxiety  in  the  atmosphere. 

No  questions,  in  truth,  were  necessary  ;  the  sight 
of  Charles  Freeman  returning  from  a  fruitless  sur 
vey,  and  the  anxious  inquiry  from  the  piazza, 
"  What,  nothing  yet  ? "  sufficed,  and  Lindesay 
returned  to  the  yacht,  with  his  mind  made  up, 
although,  with  characteristic  reticence,  he  had  not 
exchanged  a  word  with  any  one  as  to  his  purpose. 
Hurrying  below,  he  hastily  collected  all  the  shawls 
he  could  find,  adding  several  ulsters  —  a  masculine 
bundle  of  wraps. 

"  Harry,"  he  said  to  the  man  who  had  spoken  to 
him,  an  old  hand  who  had  been  for  some  years  in 
Boylston's  employ,  "  I  want  you  to  get  the  tight 
est  little  sail-boat  you  know  of,  and  come  with  me 
to  look  for  Mr.  Boylston.  He  has  ladies  with  him, 
and  they  are  so  long  getting  in  that  I  am  afraid 
they  may  have  had  some  accident." 


A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT.  8 1 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,"  returned  the  man,  betraying  by 
his  ready  compliance  what  had  been  his  own  secret 
anxiety,  for  Boylston  was  heartily  liked  by  his  crew, 
as  by  every  one  who  came  within  reach  of  his  sunny 
geniality,  "I  know  the  very  boat.  You  think  you'd 
best  go,  sir  ?  Me  and  Smith,  the  '  Fairy's  '  skipper, 
could  manage  between  us  —  " 

But  Raymond  having,  apparently,  no  doubts  as 
to  the  necessity  of  his  presence,  Harry  was  speedily 
off  in  quest  of  his  craft,  and  quarter  of  an  hour 
later  they  were  tossing  along  over  the  pitchy 
waves  in  the  direction  of  Sullivan.  The  wind 
blew  furiously,  and  the  water,  at  that  hour,  had  a 
particularly  deserted  look,  all  the  sail-boats, 
steam-yachts  and  larger  vessels  being  snugly  at 
anchor. 

"  Squally  night,  sir,"  said  Smith,  in  his  turn, 
and  Lindesay  felt  an  additional  pang  of  anxiety. 
Their  own  little  lantern  shed  but  a  narrow  circle 
of  light  over  the  watery  path,  and  this  was  made 
still  less  by  the  plunging  of  the  boat  as  she  rose 
and  fell  on  the  waves.  Raymond  bit  his  lip  with 
impatience,  their  progress  seemed  so  slow. 

"  Do  you  see  nothing  ? "  he  shouted  to  Smith, 
in  the  teeth  of  the  wind,  which,  with  their  vigor- 


82  A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT. 

ous  hauling  of  the  ropes,  made  talking  no  easy 
matter. 

"  Nary  boat,  sir ; "  but,  at  the  same  instant, 
"Boat  ahoy!"  shouted  Harry,  and  faintly  over 
the  dark  water  came  a  cry  of  distress.  Ray 
mond's  heart  leaped  to  his  mouth. 

"That's  Boylston  !  "  he  cried,  and  if  Harry  had 
hitherto  had  any  doubts  as  to  the  efficiency  of  the 
tutor  at  the  ropes,  they  were  dispelled  on  the  in 
stant.  As  they  bore  down  upon  the  hardly-to-be- 
distinguished  boat,  Raymond  was,  assuredly,  the 
third  man  in  the  right  place. 

"Can  you  take  us  in  ?"  shouted  Boylston  from 
the  sailless  little  cockle-shell ;  "  I've  ladies  on  board, 
and  we've  lost  our  sail." 

"Ay,  ay,  sir!"  roared  Harry.  "We've  come 
out  just  a-purpose." 

"What you,  old  fellow  ?  "  came  back  Boylston's 
gleeful  boyish  tones.  "  Good  for  you ! "  The 
dark  figure  stood  up  for  a  moment  against  the 
stormy  sky,  then,  as  the  rope  flung  out  by  Harry 
was  caught,  and  the  little  cockle-shell,  with  its 
lady  passengers  cowering  in  the  bottom,  became 
on  a  sudden  distinctly  visible  close  beside  them, 
he  added,  heartily,  — 


A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT.  83 

"  You're  a  trump,  Harry  ?  What  we  should 
have  done  without  you  — " 

"  Mr.  Lindesay,  sir,  not  me,"  said  the  man. 
"  I'd  ha'  com^. quick  enough,  though,  if  I'd  known 
where.  Ladies  badly  scared,  sir  ?  " 

•"  I'm  afraid  they've  good  cause,"  said  the  young 
yachtsman  ruefully,  turning  to  help  Raymond  and 
Pollen,  who  were  lifting  the  three  girls  from  the 
dismantled  boat.  Anna  regained  her  self-posses 
sion  so  soon  as  her  foot  touched  the  "  Fairy's  " 
floor,  but  Madge,  always  uncontrolled  in  her 
emotions,  poured  out  the  history  of  their  frightful 
adventure,  the  darkness,  the  wind,  the  cracking  of 
the  sail,  the  all  but  inevitable  capsizing  of  the  boat, 
and  the  certainty  that  they  would  never  have 
reached  Bar  Harbor  alive,  in  tones  equally  divided 
between  tears  and  laughter. 

"  I'm  afraid  you'll  never  trust  yourself  to  my 
guidance  again,  Miss  Madge,"  said  Boylston,  in  a 
tone  of  chagrin. 

"  Oh,  hush,  Madge  !  "  whispered  Gladys,  "don't 
you  see  that  you  make  him  feel  worse  ?  Yes,  we 
are  very  wet,  thank  you,  Mr.  Lindesay." 

Raymond  had  lifted  Gladys  last  of  all  from  the 
wrecked  sail-boat,  why,  he  did  not  know,  unless 


<^4  A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT. 

because,  by  so  doing,  he  could  set  her  down  safely 
in  the  "  Fairy"  himself  instead  of  passing  her  on 
to  Clifford  who  stood  behind  him.  He  held  her 
even  a  moment  longer  than  was  necessary  as  he 
put  his  somewhat  superfluous  question,  passing 
his  hand  anxiously  over  the  dripping  arm  that 
rested  on  his  shoulder.  Gladys  was  very  quiet, 
but  she  clung  to  the  supporting  arm  gratefully, 
and  there  was  a  happy  little  tremor  in  her  laugh 
ing  reply. 

"  I  have  wraps  here,"  said  Raymond,  plunging 
into  the  heap  of  shawls  and  ulsters.  At  that 
moment  Boylston's  grip  of  the  hand  and  hearty 
thanks,  Anna's  quiet,  ladylike  expressions  of  grati 
tude,  and  Madge's  "  See  what  it  is  to  have  one's 
wits  about  him  !  "  were  alike  distasteful.  He 
wanted  nothing  but  to  satisfy  himself  that  Gladys 
was  warm  and  sheltered  from  the  cutting  wind, 
and,  beyond  that,  cared  little  how  long  they  might 
be  in  reaching  Bar  Harbor. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  our  taking  cold ! "  she 
laughed  from  the  depths  of  shawls  and  ulsters  in 
which  he  had  wrapped  her.  "  I  have  often  been 
nearly  as  drenched  by  sudden  showers  in  riding 
with  papa,  and  salt  water  does  one  no  harm." 


A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT.  85 

"  I'm  afraid  your  adventure  will  give  you  a  dis 
taste  for  salt  water,"  said  Lindesay. 

"  Oh,  no  !  It  was  our  own  fault  for  not  starting 
sooner.  Mr.  Boylston  was  not  to  blame.  But  I 
would  rather  have  stayed  on  shore  this  afternoon." 

She  spoke  simply  and  involuntarily,  and  Ray 
mond,  remembering  the  engagement  of  the  after 
noon,  felt  an  exultant  thrill  of  pleasure.  He  was 
not  wanting  in  tact,  however,  and  the  question, 
"  When  shall  we  read  again  ?  "  followed,  not  directly, 
but  some  minutes  later,  as  they  were  nearing  the 
pier. 

"  Not  to-morrow,"  replied  Gladys,  "  nor"  -  with 
a  sudden  change  of  tone  —  "  indeed,  I  do  not  know 
when,  Mr.  Lindesay.  You  must  be  very  busy." 

The  sudden  note  of  trouble  in  the  voice  struck 
Lindesay's  sensitive  ear  at  once,  but  there  was  no 
time  now  for  explanation.  Charles  Freeman  was 
on  the  pier  as  their  boat  neared  it,  and,  with  his 
almost  morbid  dislike  of  thanks,  Raymond  turned 
off  towards  the  yacht,  leaving  his  praises  to  be 
sounded  much  more  volubly  than  he  could  have 
desired,  by  Madge  and  the  warm-hearted  Boylston. 

"  The  reading  would  have  been  much  better  than 
such  an  adventure,  Edith,"  whispered  Mrs.  Water- 


86  A    CHANCE    RAY    OF    LIGHT. 

ston,  pausing  at  her  daughter's  door  on  their  way 
up-stairs  to  bed.  "  One  cannot  seem  to  do  any 
thing  uncourteous  when  he  has  put  us  under  such 
obligations,  but  I  would  rather  almost  anything 
had  happened." 


CHAPTER   VII. 
GIRLHOOD'S  TROUBLES. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls. 

TENNYSON. 

DR.  FORBES  sat  in  his  study,  writing  a 
letter.  A  pretty  little  room  it  was,  one 
long  window  looking  out,  from  the  high  cliff  on 
which  the  cottage  was  perched,  over  the  water,  and 
the  other  opening  on  a  honeysuckle-wreathed  piazza. 
The  intervening  spaces  in  the  walls  were  filled 
with  book-cases,  their  shelves  overflowing  with 
gravely-bound  medical  tomes,  while  papers  and 
pamphlets  lay  scattered  about  in  dire  confusion. 

"  Too  pretty  a  room  to  be  littered  with  doctor's 
books  !  "  thought  Gladys  as  she  peeped  in  through 
the  open  window  that  bright  August  morning. 
The  doctor  did  not  notice  her  for  a  while,  being 
much  absorbed  in  his  own  somewhat  crabbed  and 
whimsically  characteristic  handwriting,  until,  look 
ing  up  to  consult  his  note-book  and  verify  the 

87 


88  GIRLHOOD'S  TROUBLES. 

description  of  a  case  which  he  was  giving  his  cor 
respondent,  his  eyes  caught  sight  of  Gladys' 
roguish  face  under  her  broad  hat. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Impertinence  !  "  he  said,  falling  back 
in  his  arm-chair  and  taking  a  smiling  survey  of  the 
blooming  face  under  the  wide  brim,  and  the  slender 
rounded  figure  in  the  dainty  rose-sprinkled  satine, 
"  spying  on  a  harmless  old  fellow  in  that  saucy 
fashion  !  Come  in,  if  you  have  anything  to  say  to 
me,  but  don't  say  it  until  I  have  finished  this 
letter  to  my  boy,  for  it  must  go  by  this  morning's 
mail." 

"  Your  boy !  Do  you  mean  your  son,  Dr. 
Forbes  ?  I  did  not  know  you  were  married." 

"Oh  !  you  fancied  me  too  cross-grained  to  be  any 
thing  but  an  old  bach,  did  you  ?  No,  my  dear,  I 
had  a  wife  and  a  houseful  of  children  once,  though 
Stephen  is  the  only  one  left  me  now." 

"  And  where  is  he  ?  " 

"On  the  Continent,  that  paradise  of  doctors, 
as  he  has  been,  off  and  on,  ever  since  he  graduated 
—  as  he  will  be,  I  suppose,  so  long  as  I  am  in 
active  practice." 

"  Why  should  that  matter  ?     Is  he  a  doctor  too  ?  " 

"To  the  backbone!"  replied  his  father,  laugh- 


GIRLHOOD'S  TROUBLES.  89 

ing.  "  You  ask  why  it  matters  ?  Because  he  is 
too  loyal  to  his  old  father  to  wish  to  settle  near 
him  and  draw  off  his  patients  so  long  as  he  cares 
to  practise  himself." 

"Why  should  he  expect  to  ?  "  Gladys  asked,  with 
girlish  disdain. 

"  Inevitable,  my  dear  !  The  first  touch  of  his 
hand  as  he  felt  your  pulse  would  clo  it.  He  has 
the  true  doctor's  hand,  strong,  gentle,  life-giving  ; 
mine  is  a  dry  chip  in  comparison." 

"  I  think  you  are  quite  mistaken,"  said  the  girl 
warmly,  "  and  so  is  your  son,  if  he  imagines  any 
such  thing.  I  am  sure  my  aunt  would  have  no 
one  but  you,  and  neither  will  papa  and  I." 

"  Pooh,  child  !  "  said  the  doctor,  "  did  you  think 
I  was  in  earnest  ?  No ;  Steve  is  too  simple  a  fellow 
to  have  any  such  egotistic  thoughts.  There  are  a 
thousand  reasons  for  his  staying  where  he  is  at 
present,  and  he  would  find  a  thousand  more  for 
flying  off  to  China,  the  North  Pole  or  anywhere 
else  where  he  thought  there  was  any  help  to  be 
given  or  anything  new  to  be  learned.  He  is  a 
sort  of  medical  knight-errant.  But  now  a  ten- 
minutes  truce  to  questions,  Miss  Gladys,  or  I  shall 
not  finish  my  letter  in  time  for  the  mail." 


90  GIRLHOOD  5    TROUBLES. 

The  doctor's  pen  skated  briskly  over  the  paper, 
and  Gladys,  left  to  her  own  thoughts  for  enter 
tainment,  gradually  lost  the  laughing  sparkle  in 
her  eyes,  and  sat  looking  unusually  grave,  even  a 
little  sad  and  troubled.  In  truth  she  had  come 
out,  not  with  the  idea  of  seeking  the  old  doctor, 
to  whom  she  often  paid  flying  visits,  but  because 
there  was  a  secret  weight  pressing  on  her  heart 
which  air  and  sunshine  seemed  the  best  medicine 
to  dispel. 

True  to  her  forebodings,  her  aunt  had  taken 
alarm  at  Edith's  representations,  and  approached 
the  subject  of  the  Italian  readings  timidly,  indeed, 
but  in  a  way  infinitely  distressing  to  poor  little 
Gladys. 

"  It  would  be  the  height  of  indelicacy,  of  course, 
my  dear,  to  withdraw  at  once  from  any  engage 
ment  which  you  might  have  unthinkingly  made  — 
and  you  will  not  be  so  imprudent  again,  will  you, 
Gladys  dear  ?  As  I  was  saying,  you  must  proceed 
now  with  the  greatest  delicacy  and  tact,  especially 
as  Mr.  Lindesay's  feelings  are  so  over-sensitive, 
and  we  are  under  the  deepest  obligation  to  him. 
But  I  have  perfect  confidence  in  your  discretion — 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Laura  !  what  can  I  say  ?  "  cried  poor 


GIRLHOOD'S  TROUBLES.  91 

Gladys,  distressed  by  the  picture  thus  conjured 
up,  "  how  can  I  hurt  any  one's  feelings  so  ?  " 

"  Hurt  any  one's  feelings  !  The  very  last  thing 
I  would  have  you  do  !  It  will  be  the  easiest  thing 
in  the  world  to  manage.  Just  say  how  pleasant  it 
would  be  to  have  some  of  the  others  read  with  you  ; 
and  do  remember,  Gladys,  love,  that  it  is  always 
best  to  do  things  in  a  crowd,  as  it  were.  One 
avoids  all  particularity  in  that  way,  and  there  is  no 
danger  of  one's  name  being  coupled  — 

"  Oh,  please,  Aunt  Laura,  don't  say  any  more  !  " 
cried  Gladys,  her  face  on  fire.  "  I  wasn't  thinking 
of  any  such  things  when  we  began  to  read,  and 
now  all  the  pleasure  is  spoiled." 

And  then  as  she  started  on  her  walk,  the  first 
sight  that  met  her  eyes  was  Raymond  Lindesay's 
slender  active  figure  coming  towards  her.  She 
hesitated,  half-wishing  that  she  could  run  away ; 
then  ashamed  of  the  childish  impulse,  quickened 
her  own  steps  and  held  out  her  hand  in  greeting, 
more  cordially  than  she  might  otherwise  have 
done,  though  her  face  flushed  painfully. 

"  What  a  morning  !  "  he  said,  seeming  to  notice 
nothing  beside.  "Just  look  at  the  sunbeams 
dancing  on  every  dewdrop^  on  every  blade  of  grass  ! 


92  GIRLHOOD  S    TROUBLES. 

No  wonder  Dante  thought  he  had  given  the  poor 
virtuous  heathen  comfort  enough  by  putting  the 
image  of  green  grass  under  their  feet." 

The  allusion  to  Dante  was  somewhat  unfortunate 
at  that  moment,  but  Gladys  nerved  herself  and 
began,  —  "  Mr.  Lindesay,  I  —  "  But  Lindesay 
seemed  blind  and  deaf  that  morning. 

"  Ruskin  quotes  that,  do  you  remember  ?  "  he 
went  on  quickly,  still  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
velvety*  grass.  "  Let  me  see,  how  does  he  go  on  ? 
— '  Gather  a  single  blade  of  grass  and  examine  for 
a  minute,  quietly,  its  narrow,  sword-shaped  strip  of 
fluted  green.  Nothing  as  it  seems  there  of  notable 
goodness  or  beauty.  A  very  little  strength  and  a 
very  little  tallness,  and  a  few  delicate  long  lines 
meeting  in  a  point  —  not  a  perfect  point,  neither, 
but  blunt  and  unfinished  —  by  no  means  a  cred 
itable  or  apparently  much-cared-for  example  of 
Nature's  workmanship  :  made,  as  it  seems,  only  to 
be  trodden  on  to-day  and  to-morrow  to  be  cast  into 
the  oven  :  and  a  little  pale  and  hollow  stalk,  feeble 
and  flaccid,  leading  down  to  the  dull  brown  fibres  ' ' 

He  had  stooped  to  gather  a  blade  of  grass  as  he 
spoke,  and  quoted  with  a  smile,  as  if  he  were  him 
self  describing  it. 


GIRLHOOD  S    TROUBLES.  93 

"Oh!  do  you  know  that?"  exclaimed  Gladys, 
quite  at  ease  again.  "How  well  I  remember  Mrs. 
Stanhope's  reading  it  to  me  one  morning  when  we 
were  sketching  in  England  !  I  like  that  whole 
chapter  on  grass." 

"  So  do  I,  though  Ruskin  is  often  a  little  too 
fanciful  for  me.  I  am  not  artistic,  you  know. 
Something  a  little  more  terse  and  vigorous  suits 
me  better,  whether  in  prose  or  poetry."  And  he 
murmured  a  bit  of  Emerson's  "May  Day,"  still 
apropos  of  the  grass  : 

"  See  every  patriot  oak-leaf  throws 
His  elfin  length  upon  the  snows, 
Not  idle,  since  the  leaf  all  day 
Draws  to  the  spot  the  solar  ray, 
Ere  sunset  quarrying  inches  down 
And  half-way  to  the  mosses  brown ; 
While  the  grass  beneath  the  rime 
Has  hints  of  the  propitious  time, 
And  upward  pries  and  perforates 
Through  the  cold  slab  a  thousand  gates 
Till  green  lances,  peering  through, 
Nod  happy  in  the  welkin  blue." 

"  Not  very  appropriate  for  August,  but  perfect 
for  a  Mt.  Desert  May-day,"  he  finished,  with  a 
smile.  "Whew!  how  cold  spring  must  be  here!  " 

If  his  object  had  been  to  put   Gladys  at  ease, 


94  GIRLHOOD'S  TROUBLES. 

he  had  certainly  succeeded  ;  she  was  quite  her 
own  dignified  graceful  little  self  again. 

"  How  I  wish  I  could  remember  what  I  read  as 
you  do  !  "  she  said,  meeting  his  eyes  bravely. 
"  And,  Mr.  Lindesay,  reading  with  you  has  been 
such  a  pleasure  to  me.  Do  you  not  think  we 
might  share  it  with  some  of  the  others  ?  I  know 
of  one  or  two  who  would  appreciate  it." 

"  If  you  wish  it,  certainly,"  said  Raymond,  a  lit 
tle  startled  by  this  bold  advance  into  the  enemy's 
camp,  for  his  quick  eye  had  discerned  the  trouble 
in  Gladys'  face,  and  his  keen  sensitiveness  had 
connected  it  with  the  hesitation  of  the  night  be 
fore  about  the  deferred  reading.  "Are  there  so 
many  Italian  linguists  among  the  young  ladies  at 
Bar  Harbor,  then  ?  " 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  Italian  exactly,"  said 
Gladys,  coloring.  "  You  know  we  have  some 
times  read  English,  too.  If  I  tried,  I  might  make 
that  Italian  novel  we  are  translating  interesting 
to  the  others,  or  you  could,  certainly,  and  anybody 
who  cared  at  all  for  Italian  would  like  the  music 
of  Dante." 

"Well,  it  shall  be  as  you  choose,  of  course," 
said  Raymond,  smothering  his  own  chagrin.  "As 


GIRLHOOD'S  TROUBLES.  95 

you  say,  there  might  be  some  who  would  enjoy 
it."  He  remembered  Anna  Clifford.  "And  such 
things  always  settle  themselves  in  the  end ;  the 
disaffected  drop  off  after  one  or  two  trials,  and 
the  class  shrinks  into  its  original  elements.  But 
you  forget  my  personal  share  in  the  matter,  my 
progress  in  Italian  —  what  is  to  become  of  that  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Gladys,  her  face  flushing  again  in 
her  eagerness  to  have  the  painful  matter  happily 
settled,  "you  have  made  progress,  haven't  you? 
Really,  you  speak  so  well  I  have  been  surprised." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Raymond  lightly ;  then, 
pausing  a  moment  at  Dr.  Forbes'  gate,  where 
Gladys  made  a  determined  stop,  he  held  out  his 
hand,  forcing  her  eyes,  as  it  were,  to  meet  his. 
"  You  spoke,  the  other  day,  of  my  being  too  busy 
to  read.  My  engagements,  you  know,  are  regular 
ones,  and  those  are  the  easiest  in  the  world  to 
manage,  but  if  anything  comes  up  which  you  want 
to  do,  and  there  will  be  a  great  deal,  don't  feel 
obliged  to  keep  a  troublesome  engagement." 

His  eyes  looked  into  hers  so  full  of  an  expres 
sion  which  was  quite  new  to  her,  a  sort  of  deep 
comprehension  and  wistful  tenderness,  that  Gladys 
was  half  startled,  half  perplexed. 


96  GIRLHOOD'S  TROUBLES. 

"Troublesome?  Oh,  no!  oh,  no!"  she  said, 
slowly,  "I  should  never  feel  that." 

She  turned  up  the  garden  path  as  she  spoke, 
and,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  the  eyes  which 
met  the  old  doctor's  so  laughingly  a  few  minutes 
later,  were  just  then  filled  with  tears. 

Raymond  stood  watching  her  until  she  reached 
the  house.  "  Poor  little  girl !  Dear  little  girl !  " 
he  said  to  himself.  "What  have  they  been  say 
ing  to  her  ? "  But  there  was  no  sadness  in  his 
face  as  he  said  it ;  on  the  contrary,  an  unusually 
bright,  almost  an  exultant  expression  played  about 
his  mouth  and  looked  from  his  eyes  as  he  walked 
away. 

All  this  had  passed  quickly  through  Gladys' 
mind  as  she  sat  silently  awaiting  the  end  of  the 
doctor's  letter,  till,  impatient  just  then  of  her 
own  restless  thoughts,  she  opened  the  unfailing 
sketch-book,  and  looked  about  her  for  subjects. 
Her  eye  fell  on  a  crayon  head  hanging  over  the 
doctor's  writing-table.  It  was  the  portrait  of  a 
man  of  perhaps  thirty  ;  a  strong,  good  face,  not 
handsome,  certainly,  Gladys  thought ;  but  some 
thing  in  the  steady,  earnest  expression  of  the  eyes 
as  they  met  hers,  struck  her  fancy,  and  seemed  to 


GIRLHOOD  S    TROUBLES.  97 

exercise  a  restful  influence  on  her  troubled  mind. 
A  few  moments  after,  she  was  quite  engrossed 
in  trying  to  catch  that-  very  look  in  her  pencil 
likeness. 

"  And  now,"  wrote  the  doctor,  "  though  I  know 
the  genus  girl  does  not  much  interest  you  (un 
less,  perhaps,  I  should  add,  she  have  need  of  a 
physician),  I  must  appeal  to  your  indulgence  for 
once,  and  break  off  my  letter  sooner  than  I  in 
tended,  out  of  consideration  for  one  of  the  sweet 
est,  brightest  specimens  of  girlhood  I  know,  who 
has  just  dropped  in  to  make  me  a  call.  She  is 
Gordon  Lyman's  daughter,  and,  if  I  were  not 
tired  of  holding  out  such  inducements  to  you,  I 
should  advise  you  to  return  home  in  a  hurry 
before  this  sweet  little  rosebud  gets  her  petals  a 
trifle  too  fully  blown  from  flaunting  in  the  world's 
garden.  But  what  an  old  fool  you  will  think  me ! 
I  am  almost  ready  to  acknowledge  it  myself,  for 
trying  such  blandishments  on  a  hardened  subject 
like  you." 

He  folded  and  addressed  the  letter,  smiling, 
then  returning  to  the  table,  after  giving  it  to  the 
servant,  he  stooped  over  Gladys'  shoulder  to  look 
at  her  sketch. 


98  GIRLHOOD'S  TROUBLES. 

"  Why,  that  is  a  coincidence  !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  that  face,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  I  like  it,"  said  Gladys  heartily,  holding  off 
her  sketch  at  arms-length,  and  examining  it 
critically;  "not  because  it  is  handsome,  you  know, 
for  it  is  not,  but  just  for  that  downright  heart-and- 
soul  look  it  has  in  the  eyes." 

"Ay!  that  is  Stephen's  strong  point,"  said  the 
father,  pleased,  in  spite  of  Gladys'  frank  admission. 

"  Oh  !  "  a  little  abashed  by  the  recollection,  "is 
that  your  son  ?  I  said  he  was  not  handsome,  but 
one  cannot  tell  much  from  a  sketch  like  that. 
The  face  doesn't  matter  much  in  a  man,  of 
course." 

"Especially  as  there  is  quite  enough  of  Stephen 
to  make  up  for  possible  drawbacks  in  beauty  of 
feature,"  smiled  the  father,  "as  you  will  say  your 
self  when  you  see  him  —  that  is,  if  he  ever  does 
settle  down  at  home,  like  his  sober  married  con 
temporaries." 

"  Then  he  is  not  married  ?  " 

"His  work  is  his  wife.  Carlyle  says  some 
where,  '  Blessed  is  the  man  who  has  found  his 
work ;  let  him  ask  no  other  blessedness ; '  and 
Steve  is  so  nearly  of  his  mind  that  he  will  be 


GIRLHOOD  S    TROUBLES.  99 

satisfied,  I  think,  with  that  state  of  single  blessed 
ness  all  his  life." 

"  I  remember  Mr.  Lindesay's  saying,"  said 
Gladys,  thoughtfully,  touching  her  pencil  portrait 
here  and  there,  and  dismissing  the  original  from 
the  conversation,  "  that  that  was  one  of  Carlyle's 
truest  sayings  ;  but  there  are  not  many  people  who 
do  find  their  right  work,  I  suppose,  or  who  are 
able  to  devote  themselves  to  it  if  they  do.  What 
a  pity  that  is  !  " 

"  So  Lindesay  has  been  reading  you  Carlyle 
with  personal  foot-notes,  has  he  ? "  said  the  old 
doctor,  with  a  glance  from  under  his  bushy  eye 
brows.-  "  By  the  way,  how  does  my  prescription 
for  him  work  ?  How  do  you  like  him  ?  " 

"  Every  one  likes  him  now,  I  think,"  Gladys 
replied  guardedly. 

"  Good !  I  told  you  they  would,  and  you've 
succeeded  bravely  in  drawing  him  out.  They  tell 
me  he  appeared  last  night  in  a  new  character  as 
the  rescuer  of  young  ladies  from  a  watery  grave. 
How  came  you  to  be  drawn  into  such  a  mad  frolic 
as  that,  Miss  Gladys  ?  " 

"  I  was  over-persuaded,"  said  Gladys,  her  color 
deepening  at  the  recollection. 


IOO  GIRLHOOD  S    TROUBLES. 

"  So-ho !  Well,  don't  let  yourself  be  over- 
persuaded  next  time,  my  dear.  Just  go  on  your 
own  straight  course,  which,  ten  to  one,  will  be 
the  right  one.  I  don't  preach  independent  action 
to  every  girl,  mind,  but  I  think  you  have  a 
steadier  head  than  most  of  the  girls  about  you." 

"  I  begin  to  think"  —  said  Gladys,  then  hesitated 
so  long  that  the  good  doctor  grew  impatient. 

"Well,  what,  my  dear?  " 

"  I  was  only  going  to  say  that  I  thought  it  very 
hard  for  girls  to  be  independent ;  hard  for  them  to 
know  what  it  is  right  to  do.  They  have  to  think 
so  much  of  what  other  people  will  say  " 

"They  needn't,"  said  the  doctor  emphatically. 
"  Nine  tenths  of  '  what  people  will  say '  is  bosh, 
take  my  word  for  it ;  possibly  it  will  never  be 
said  !  Just  get  that  idea  out  of  your  head  before 
you  launch  out  into  the  world.  But  you  are  enig 
matical  this  morning,  Miss  Gladys.  Tell  me  the 
whole  story  of  this  unlucky  water-party :  who  over- 
persuaded  you,  and  what  did  you  fear  people  would 
say?  /  said  if  those  six  young  people  were  not 
fine  specimens  of  our  American  youth,  there 
would  be  rheumatic  fever  after  their  ducking! 
Let  me  hear  the  story." 


GIRLHOOD  S    TROUBLES.  IOI 

"  I  haven't  time  to  tell  it  to-day,"  said  Gladys, 
hurriedly  closing  her  book  as  she  glanced  at  the 
clock,  "  even  if  it  were  worth  your  hearing. 
Good-by  for  this  morning,  Dr.  Forbes  !  You  see 
you  should  not  have  written  such  volumes  to  your 
son  if  you  wanted  me  to  talk  to  you."  And, 
with  an  April  flash  of  the  brown  eyes,  she  was 
out  of  the  house  and  at  the  gate. 

The  old  doctor  walked  thoughtfully  up  and 
down  the  piazza.,  his  hands  folded  behind  him. 

"Girls!  girls!"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "I 
begin  to  think  I  know  even  less  about  them  than 
my  son  Stephen !  Have  I  been  making  any  mis 
chief,  I  wonder  ?  What  sen.t  that  little  witch  off 
in  such  a  hurry  ?  " 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

AN    ORDEAL    BY    FIRE. 

O,  were  thou  in  the  cauld  blast, 

On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea. 
My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I'd  shelter  thee,  I'd  shelter  thee. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 

AS  Gladys  neared  the  hotel,  a  gentleman, 
mounted  on  a  beautiful  saddle-horse,  was 
talking  with  her  cousin  Madge,  who  stood  on  the 
steps,  while  a  groom  walked  another  round  the 
carriage  sweep  at  the«ide  of  the  house.  On  this 
horse,  a  bright  bay  equipped  with  a  side-saddle, 
Gladys  cast  longing  eyes  as  she  crossed  the  gravel 
path. 

"  She  is  the  gentlest  creature  in  the  world,"  the 
gentleman  was  saying. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  not  at  all  afraid,"  Madge  replied, 
"but  I  don't  appreciate  horseback  riding  as  my 
sister  or  my  cousin  might.  It  seems  a  pity  to 
waste  a  thorough-bred  on  me  —  oh,  Gladys  !  I  am 
so  glad  you  have  come  —  Mr.  Amory,  my  cousin, 

102 


AN    ORDEAL    BY    FIRE.  IO3 

Miss  Lyman."  Gladys,  raising  her  eyes  with  a 
lively  recollection  of  Madge's  "making  over  to  her 
her  share"  in  this  gentleman's  menage  and  saddle- 
horses,  was  somewhat  surprised  to  see  in  him  a 
handsome,  rather  distinguished-looking  man,  who 
bowed  and  spoke  with  a  peculiarly  unanimated, 
almost  languid  air,  but  with  none  of  the  supercili 
ousness  she  had  expected  from  Madge's  descrip 
tion  of  him. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  riding  ?  "  he  asked,  looking 
at  her  with  a  smile.  Gladys'  eyes  were  dancing. 

"  Oh,  so  fond  !  And  I  have  not  ridden  —  why, 
I  have  not  even  seen  a  horse  since  I  came  to 
America !  I  have  been  at  school  in  New  York," 
she  added,  as  if  afraid  of  seeming  to  cast  a  slur  on 
the  American  steed. 

"  Do  you  care  to  see  her  put  through  her 
paces?"  the  gentleman  asked,  still  with  a  smile, 
and  a  half-amused,  half-pleased  glance  of  attention 
at  Gladys'  eager  face.  The  groom,  mounting  and 
holding  the  blanket  over  his  knee  for  a  skirt, 
made  the  beautiful  creature  trot  and  canter  about 
the  grass-plot,  ending  with  a  flying  leap  over  a 
five-railed  fence  into  the  pasture. 

"Oh  !  if  I  might,"  cried  Gladys  ecstatically. 


IO4  AN    ORDEAL    BY    FIRE. 

Mr.  Amory  looked  inquiringly  at  Mrs.  Water- 
ston,  who  stood  with  a  group  of  other  ladies  sur 
veying  the  little  exhibition  from  the  piazza. 
"You  would  have  no  fears  for  your  niece  ?  The 
animal  is  really  perfectly  safe,  and  I  would  prom 
ise  not  to  carry  her  out  of  sight." 

"  No,  no  fears  at  all  with  you,  Mr.  Amory," 
replied  Mrs.  Waterston  graciously.  "  Gladys  is 
an  experienced  horsewoman,  I  believe." 

There  was  time  for  some  little  explanatory 
conversation  while  Gladys  was  putting  on  her 
habit,  and  as  she  re-appeared,  glowing  like  a  rose 
in  her  girlish  delight,  Madge's  eyes  met  hers  with 
a  most  mischievous  twinkle  ;  a  "  Didn't  I  tell  you 
so?"  expression;  while  Mr.  Amory  surveyed  her 
with  another  of  his  quiet  glances  of  pleased 
observation  as  he  led  her  down  the  steps. 

If  the  girl  had  had  any  other  thought  except  of 
her  own  ecstatic  joy  at  finding  herself  once  more 
on  horseback,  it  might  have  been  a  little  triumph 
for  her  vanity.  Mr.  Amory's  new  purchase  could 
scarcely  have  found  a  more  appreciative  rider,  and 
the  whole  lady  household  at  least  were  there  as 
witnesses  of  her  grace  and  perfect  control  of  the 
spirited  animal. 


AN    (XtDEAL    BY    FIRE.  1 05 

"  May  I  leap  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  back  with  a 
charming  smile  over  her  shoulder  at  her  escort. 

"  If  you  are  sure  of  your  seat ;  but  do  pray  be 
careful." 

Gladys'  only  reply  was  a  laugh  as  she  gently 
urged  the  horse  on  towards  the  fence  over  which 
the  two  vaulted  as  if  steed  and  rider  had  but  one 
set  of  muscles  as  well  as  one  will  ;  then,  cantering 
round  through  the  gate  to  join  Mr.  Amory,  she 
said  gayly,  "  Oh  !  you  must  have  no  fears  for  me. 
I  have  ridden  a  great  deal  with  papa  abroad,  and 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  not  known  what  life  was  all  this 
summer  till  now  when  I  find  myself  on  horseback 
again." 

"  You  are  certainly  at  home  there,"  said  Mr. 
Amory,  with  more  animation  than  he  had  yet 
shown ;  "you  must  let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  rid 
ing  often  with  you.  Since  Miss  Edith  has  found 
such  an  attractive  companion  for  life,  I  cannot 
count  on  her  as  I  used  to  for  riding." 

"  It  would  be  a  very  great  pleasure  to  me,"  said 
Gladys,  and  it  was  not  until  Mr.  Amory  was  riding 
off,  the  groom  leading  the  bay  behind  him,  that 
she  remembered  her  aunt's  inconsistency  in  ac 
cepting  this  invitation  for  her  so  cordially. 


IO6  AN    ORDEAL    BY    FIRE. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  to  have  such  a  pleasure, 
dear,"  she  said  caressingly,  as  they  mounted  the 
stairs.  "  You  will  probably  see  a  great  deal  of 
Mr.  Amory  next  winter,  and  there  is  no  possible 
objection  to  your  riding  with  him  whenever  you 
choose." 

"  Alone?  "  asked  the  girl,  half-rebellioiisly. 

"  Oh  no  !  "  said  Mrs.  Waterston,  coloring  slight 
ly,  for  there  was  something  in  Gladys'  tone  which 
struck  on  her  ear  with  a  new  sound,  "there  will 
be  very  few  days  when  Charles  and  Edith  will  not 
be  riding,  too,  and  you  will  naturally  form  one 
party." 

Gladys  perfectly  understood  the  difference  ex 
isting  in  her  aunt's  mind  between  the  two  cases, 
and  speculated  about  it  a  little  bitterly  as  she  took 
off  her  habit,  but  did  not  make  it  any  ground  of 
objection  to  the  rides  which  now  became  frequent, 
almost  daily  occurrences. 

In  truth,  it  was  a  relief  to  her  to  be  able  to 
throw  herself  heartily  into  anything  which  she  so 
completely  enjoyed.  A  ray  of  daylight  had  been 
let  in  upon  her  girlish  heart,  first,  indeed,  by  her 
aunt's  warning,  but  far  more  by  that  look  in  Ray 
mond  Lindesay's  eyes,  and  the  strange  throb  it 


AN    ORDEAL    BY    FIRE.  IO/ 

had  called  up  in  herself.  Gladys  shrank  from  in 
vestigating  it,  shrank,  indeed,  at  this  time  from 
any  deep  or  continued  train  of  thought,  avoided 
meeting  Mr.  Lindesay,  unless  with  others,  as  sedu 
lously  as  Mrs.  Waterston  herself  could  have  de 
sired,  and  gladly  hailed  anything  which  averted 
the  danger.  Often,  too,  she  longed  with  scarcely 
controlled  impatience  for  her  father's  coming. 

The  readings  were  still  continued,  but  they  were 
now  become  general.  No  one  present  would  have 
suspected  Gladys  of  being  the  moving  spring  in 
their  origin,  for  she  was  very  silent,  taking  no 
part  in  the  lively  discussions  in  which  Anna  Clif 
ford  delighted,  and  which  drew  out  all  Raymond's 
keen  caustic  humor  and  cultured  intellect. 

"That  is  Anna's  peculiar  gift,"  Madge  said,  one 
day ;  "  she  understands  so  perfectly  how  to  bring 
out  other  people  and  make  them  show  their  best. 
She  manages  to  get  a  sort  of  reflected  lustre  from 
any  one  for  whom  she  will  take  the  trouble  to  ex 
ert  herself." 

"  And  she  could  scarcely  have  a  gift,  short  of 
positive  beauty,  which  would  be  more  appreciated." 
Edith  added.  "  No  man  with  the  slightest  tinct 
ure  of  vanity,  could  fail  to  be  influenced  by  it." 


IO8  AN    ORDEAL    BY    FIRE. 

Very  often  it  happened  that  Gladys  herself  was 
the  missing  one  at  the  readings.  The  long  golden 
afternoons  seemed  made  for  horseback  riding. 

"  I  t'old  you  she  would  find  something  at  Bar 
Harbor  exactly  to  her  taste,  before  summer  was 
over,"  Anna  smilingly  observed  to  Raymond. 

The  rides  were  enjoyable  in  themselves,  in 
dependently  of  the  thoroughbred.  Mr.  Amory 
seemed  to  Gladys  to  have  been  everywhere,  done 
everything  and  seen  everything,  so  that  he  could 
scarcely  fail  to  have  something  to  talk  about,  the 
only  wonder  existing  in  her  mind  being  that  all  he 
had  seen  and  done  seemed  to  awaken  so  little  en 
thusiasm. 

"  It  can't  be  from  any  lack  of  appreciation, 
either,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "  for  he  seems  to  me 
as  cultured  and  refined  as  he  looks.  I  sometimes 
wish  he  could  be  painted  full  length,  and  sent  to 
some  exhibition  abroad  as  a  portrait  of  the  Ameri 
can  gentleman." 

"  But  you  know  people  who  have  seen  and  done 
everything  are  apt  to  be  a  little  d/as/f"  remarked 
Edith  ;  "  when  you've  been  about  more,  Gladys, 
you  will  find  that  the  'Nil  admirari*  attitude  is 
rather  a  fashionable  one.  It  comes  more  or  less 


AN   ORDEAL    BY    FIRE.  109 

naturally  as  one  discovers  that  there  is  nothing 
new  under  the  sun." 

"  Oh !  I  do  hope  it  will  never  come  to  me," 
cried  the  girl,  earnestly.  "  But  I  am  sure  there  is 
no  danger.  And,  Edith,  I  can  imagine  a  man  who 
might  have  seen  and  done  as  much  as  Mr.  Amory, 
and  yet,  instead  of  growing  blast,  as  you  say,  might 
grow  more  and  more  interested  and  enthusiastic. 
It  must  be  like  book  knowledge,  I  think.  Just  the 
surface  learning  grows  wearisome  in  time,  perhaps, 
but  when  one  gets  into  the  heart  of  things  — 

"And  yet,  you  mustn't  criticise  Mr.  Amory, 
Gladys,"  interrupted  Madge,  "for  I  assure  you  he 
is  positively  animated  when  he  is  with  you  by  com 
parison  with  his  former  self.  Only  yesterday  he 
told  Edith  that  it  was  'actual  delight  to  him  to  see 
your  enjoyment  in  riding  —  you  gave  him  quite  a 
new  zest  for  life.'  ' 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  rejoined  Gladys,  laugh 
ingly,  "and,  indeed,  I  do  like  him  very  much.  He 
is  as  different  as  possible  from  the  supercilious 
person  I  imagined  when  you  girls  talked  about 
him." 

"  We  have  been  riding  nearly  every  day,"  she 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Stanhope,  'until  last  week  when  I 


IIO  AN    ORDEAL    BY    FIRE. 

managed  to  sprain  my  ankle  badly.  I  hardly 
know  how  it  happened,  but,  as  we  were  riding 
do\vn  one  of  the  sudden  steep  plunges  in  the  road, 
which  was  badly  gullied  by  heavy  rains,  my  horse 
which  had  always  seemed  very  sure-footed  before, 
suddenly  slipped  and  fell.  It  took  me  so  by  sur 
prise  that  I  did  not  try  to  save  myself  as  I  might 
have  tried  with  a  horse  I  felt  less  sure  of,  and 
Gypsy  rolled  over  on  her  side,  twisting  my  foot 
under  her. 

"Mr.  Amory  was  out  of  his  saddle  in  a  moment, 
looking  terribly  white  —  I  should  never  have  sus 
pected  him  of  being  nervous  ! — and  Charles  and 
Edith  who  were  riding  a  good  way  behind,  as  they 
usually  do,  came  cantering  up  in  the  greatest 
fright.  But  there  was  really  no  cause  for  alarm. 
My  ankle  was  only  sprained  from  the  twist,  and 
poor  Gypsy  was  more  hurt,  as  well  as  more  fright 
ened,  than  I.  They  put  the  side-saddle  on  Mr. 
Amory's  horse,  and  he  walked  beside  me  all  the 
way  home,  holding  me  on,  which  was  entirely  un 
necessary,  as  my  wrists  were  not  sprained,  and  I 
could  manage  a  horse  as  well  as  ever. 

"  Dr.  Forbes  tells  me  one  must  be  very  careful 
about  sprains,  and,  as  he  is  not  apt  to  make  a  fuss 


AN    ORDEAL    BY    FIRE.  Ill 

over  things,  I  am  very  obedient,  and  sit  patiently 
by  the  window  with  my  foot  upon  the  lounge,  not 
even  trying  to  walk  a  step.  But  really,  dear  Mrs. 
Stanhope,  I  am  glad  to  have  a  little  time  to  think 
and  be  quiet  before  papa  comes.  Life  here  seems 
to  hurry  me  on  so  fast,  and  one  thing  comes  just 
on  the  heels  of  the  other,  till  all  the  day  is  in  a 
whirl !  Does  it  always  seem  so  in  society  life,  I 
wonder  ?  I  do  not  mean  that  it  shall  be  so  with 
me,  and,  if  papa  can  spare  me  after  the  Boston 
house  is  furnished,  all  except  the  little  finishings 
that  we  shall  like  to  keep  adding  all  the  time,  I 
mean  to  come  to  you  for  a  quiet  visit  before  the 
whirl  begins.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  grown  very  much 
older  this  summer,  and  the  thought  of  next  winter 
does  not  alarm  me  now  as  it  did  when  I  bade 
you  good-by  in  New  York.  How  much  I  shall 
have  to  talk  of  with  you  !  " 

Here  Madge  entered,  a  basket  of  flowers  in 
either  hand.  "  For  you,  Gladys  —  only  look  at  the 
orchids  !  Mr.  Amory  is  gone  to  Boston  to  im 
prove  the  time  while  your  ankle  is  getting  well,  he 
says  ;  I  think  he  means  to  get  another  saddle- 
horse  in  place  of  poor  Gypsy,  for  he  declares  he 
will  never  trust  you  on  her  again." 


112  AN    ORDEAL    BY    FIRE. 

"Nonsense!  But,  Madge,  where  did  these  wild 
flowers  come  from  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  Mr.  Lindesay  brought  them  for  you. 
You  know  he  is  a  great  botanist,  and  I  daresay 
there  is  a  specimen  here  of  every  wild  flower  to 
be  found  in  Mt.  Desert." 

"  If  one  walks  far  enough  for  them,"  said 
Gladys,  taking  the  basket  from  Madge's  hand. 

"And  here  are  flowers  that  cannot  be  had  for 
the  walking.  Now,  Gladys,  are  you  really  in  ear 
nest  in  wanting  us  all  to  go  off  on  that  excursion 
this  afternoon  ?  I  am  afraid  you  will  be  lonely, 
for  every  soul  in  the  hotel  is  off  somewhere,  I 
believe,  and  it  will  be  so  quiet  that  you  can  hear 
the  grass  grow." 

"  No,  no  ;  I  don't  want  any  of  you  to  stay.  I 
shall  not  need  anything,  and,  if  the  quiet  grows 
overpowering,  I  can  take  a  nap." 

From  her  window  Gladys  watched  the  buck- 
board  driven  up  to  the  door,  and  the  party  set 
forth,  Madge  regretfully  waving  her  pocket-hand 
kerchief  as  they  disappeared  from  sight.  Other 
carriages  came  and  went,  until,  as  Madge  had 
predicted,  the  hotel  seemed  utterly  deserted,  un 
less  by  the  servants. 


AN    ORDEAL    BY    FIRE.  113 

Gladys  finished  her  letter  and  lay  back  on  the 
lounge,  looking  idly  out.  It  was  an  intensely  still 
afternoon,  one  of  the  soft,  sultry,  hazy  days  that 
often  come  in  early  September.  The  sails  drifted 
sleepily  over  the  smooth  water,  the  insects  chirped 
shrilly  in  the  trees,  the  sun  fell  scorching  on  the 
dry  grass,  and  in  the  air  was  a  soft  blue  mist  and 
a  faint  odor  suggesting  forest  fires.  Gladys  lay 
dreamily  with  half-closed  eyes,  parting  the  ferns 
in  her  basket  of  wild  flowers,  and  smiling  to  her 
self  as  she  saw  one  and  another  delicate  blossom 
which  the  old  doctor  had  told  her  grew  only  in 
spots  on  the  island.  A  graver  expression  played 
about  the  sweet  mouth,  then  the  long  lashes  grew 
dewy,  and  presently,  as  Gladys  fell  asleep,  lulled 
by  the  chirping  of  the  insects  in  the  branches 
near  her,  a  tell-tale  tear  dropped  upon  her  pillow. 

How  long  she  slept  she  did  not  know,  but  she 
awaked  with  a  start  of  terror.  There  was  nothing 
to  be  seen  as  she  raised  herself  on  her  elbow,  half- 
bewildered,  to  look  from  the  window.  She  heard 
a  shouting,  excited,  incoherent  cries  as  if  from  a 
crowd  of  men  and  boys,  but  from  the  wing  in  which 
her  room  and  Madge's  lay,  the  wall  of  the  main 
building  quite  shut  off  her  view.  And  yet  there 


114  AN    ORDEAL    BY    FIRE. 

was  a  nameless  something  in  the  air  which  made 
her  heart  throb  wildly.  She  felt  lonely,  forsaken, 
almost  as  if  she  must  cry  for  help.  She  stretched 
from  the  window  as  far  as  she  could,  and  at  the 
moment  a  red  tongue  of  flame  burst  from  the 
white  wall  beyond,  and  a  hoarse  cry  rose  from 
the  crowd  she  could  not  see.  Oh !  it  was  fire,  and 
she  was  there  alone  and  helpless.  She  cried 
"  Help  !  help  !  "  as  loudly  as  she  could,  but  no 
one  heard  her.  Far  off  down  the  dusty  road  she 
saw  some  barefooted  boys  running  towards  the 
hotel,  and  crying  "Fire!"  in  the  joyous  tone  of 
street  urchins  at  such  times.  She  waved  her 
handkerchief,  but  no  one  saw  her.  Another  wild 
burst  of  flame  from  the  projecting  wall,  and,  made 
desperate  with  terror  as  she  remembered  that  she 
must  be  cut  off  from  the  stairs,  she  seized  both 
sides  of  the  window-frame  and  dragged  herself  up 
on  the  sill.  One  shuddering  look  at  the  ground 
below,  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  two  strong  arms 
surrounded  her  and  drew  her  back  into  safety 
and  protection. 

"Thank  God!"  said  Raymond  Lindesay's  voice, 
and,  with  a  little  inarticulate  cry,  she  turned  and 
clung  to  him,  hiding  her  face  on  his  shoulder. 


AN    ORDEAL    BY    FIRE.  115 

For  a  moment  he  held  her  in  his  arms,  soothing 
her  with  words  she  scarcely  noticed  at  the  time. 
It  was  too  sweet  to  find  the  terrible  loneliness  all 
at  once  so  far  away. 

"Oh,  I  was  frightened!"  she  exclaimed,  trying 
to  smile  and  drawing  back  on  the  pillows.  "And 
you  remembered  I  was  alone  ?  You  came  for  me  ? " 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "I  came  to  see. 
Don't  talk  of  it  now  —  we  must  go,  or  try  to  go, 
at  least.  There  is  not  a  moment  to  be  lost.  You 
will  trust  yourself  to  me?" 

She  looked  up  with  a  smile  and  rose  at  once, 
supporting  herself  on  his  arm. 

"  No,  no!  not  so." 

He  tore  a  blanket  from  the  bed,  drenched  it 
with  water,  and,  shrouding  her  in  it  from  head  to 
foot,  raised  her  gently  in  his  arms. 

"Do  not  try  to  look,"  he  said  hoarsely;  "there, 
hide  your  face  so,  and  do  not  once  let  go  your 
hold.  You  will  not  be  afraid  with  me?" 

"I  am  afraid  for  you,"  she  whispered,  trembling, 
and  hiding  her  face  as  he  bade  her. 

It  was  well  she  did  not  know  what  that  fiery 
passage  was.  Along  the  narrow  entries  he  sped, 
the  air  growing  suffocatingly  hot  as  they  advanced, 


Il6  AN    ORDEAL    BY    FIRE. 

pausing  a  moment  at  the  stairs,  up  which  the 
flames  were  already  beginning  to  lick  their  way, 
faltering  a  moment  as  the  angry  tongues  darted  at 
his  burden,  then,  pressing  her  closer  to  him  as  if 
to  snatch  her  away,  he  leaped  and  stumbled  down 
the  last  broken  steps,  and  shot  into  the  air  outside, 
as  from  a  very  baptism  of  fire. 

The  crowd  of  old  men  and  boys  —  feeble  folk 
to  fight  such  a  foe  —  were  gathered  round  the 
main  building,  which,  like  most  of  the  hotels  in 
the  place,  was  a  perfect  tinder-box  of  light  wood, 
and  flamed  and  crackled  in  the  dry  air  like  so 
much  paper.  The  wing  had  caught  fire  last,  and, 
for  the  moment,  all  eyes  were  too  intent  elsewhere 
to  notice  their  exit. 

Raymond  carried  his  burden  to  a  grassy  knoll 
at  some  distance  and  unwrapped  the  blanket  with 
beating  heart. 

"  Yes,  safe,"  said  Gladys,  almost  laughing  in 
the  intense  relief  of  the  moment,  at  the  sight  of 
his  white,  scared  face;  "alive  and  breathing. 
But  you  —  Oh,  Mr.  Lindesay  !  your  hair  is  scorched 
and  your  very  eyelashes  burned  off." 

Raymond  put  up  his  hand.  "Well,"  he  said 
lightly,  "  that  is  a  holocaust  I  willingly  assent  to 


AN    ORDEAL    BY    FIRE.  II? 

since  more  precious  things  are  unharmed.  But  I 
must  go  quickly  and  find  some  sort  of  conveyance, 
or  you  will  be  the  centre  of  a  sensation  among  the 
good  people  here.  I  am  going  to  carry  you  to 
Dr.  Forbes." 

"  Hatless,  trunkless,  clothesless  !  "  said  Gladys, 
half-laughing  again  in  the  reaction  of  her  spirits. 

"  Not  for  long,  I  trust.  As  soon  as  you  have  a 
roof  over  your  head,  I  shall  come  back  to  see  what 
can  be  saved  from  the  wreck." 

"  Oh,  not  again  ! "  cried  Gladys,  with  a  shudder. 
"Clothes  are  not  worth  the  risk  of  a  life." 

"  But  think  of  your  aunt  and  cousins.  I  know 
too  well  what  it  is  to  be  in  suspense.  But  there 
will  be  no  risk  —  you  need  not  fear  for  me.  Now 
lean  back  against  this  tree,  and  rest  your  poor 
ankle.  Remember  that  all  fears  are  over,  and  you 
are  safe  and  unhurt." 

"  And  you,  as  well,"  Gladys  thought  as  she 
shut  her  eyes  and  leaned  back  obediently,  feeling 
a  happy  peacefulness  steal  over  her  with  the 
thought  that  all  must  surely  be  well  now.  So 
Raymond  found  her  when  he  returned,  chatting 
merrily  with  a  ring  of  little  urchins,  who  sur 
rounded  her,  attracted  by  the  shout  of  one  of 


Il8  AN    ORDEAL    BY    FIRE. 

their  number  :  "  A  woman  !  a  woman  saved  out 
of  the  fire !  "  and  rather  disappointed  that  such  a 
rara  avis  should  look  and  speak  like  other  people. 
She  sat  silently  leaning  back  as  they  drove  to 
the  doctor's  cottage,  listening  to  the  driver's  eager 
account  of  the  origin  of  the  fire,  —  a  match  dropped 
in  the  barn-loft  by  two  half-tipsy  hostlers,  and 
unnoticed  in  the  general  desertion  of  the  hotel 
till  too  late.  But  she  felt  too  entirely  at  peace  in 
the  present  to  ask  a  question  or  give  a  thought 
to  the  future. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

MR.  LYMAN'S  CHECKMATE. 

My  wind  is  turned  to  bitter  north, 
That  was  so  soft  a  south  before  ; 

My  sky  that  shone  so  sunny  bright, 
With  foggy  gloom  is  clouded  o'er. 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 

lUT  does  it  seem  to  you  natural  that  Gladys' 
nerves  should  be  so  unstrung  by  the  fire?" 

"  Unstrung  ?  Why,  think  of  the  terrible  strain 
of  those  few  minutes  when  she  was  alone  and 
helpless  with  death  staring  her  in  the  face !  My 
dear  Lyman,  we  men  should  have  been  the  same 
in  her  place,  though,  for  the  matter  of  that,  what 
do  you  mean  by  '  unstrung  ? '  ' 

"  Excited  ;  talking  deliriously,  as  she  has  talked 
almost  every  night  since  I  came  ;  seeming  at  times 
so  restless  and  unlike  herself,  and  then  again,  so 
completely  prostrated.  I  scarcely  know  what  to 
make  of  it ;  Gladys  has  a  good  constitution  and 
strong  nerves." 

119 


I2O  MR.    LYMAN  S    CHECKMATE. 

"Don't  ask  too  much  of  them,  then,"  grumbled 
the  doctor.  "  The  sprained  ankle  is  enough  to 
account  for  prostration.  Be  easy,  my  good  sir, 
and  don't  make  unreasonable  demands  on  Dame 
Nature." 

Mr.  Lyman  and  the  doctor  were  walking  slowly 
back  and  forth  on  the  piazza,  of  the  hospitable 
cottage  which  had  opened  its  doors  and  taken 
in  all  the  Waterston  party  till  Mr.  Lyman  should 
arrive,  the  deficient  wardrobes  receive  some  addi 
tions,  and  Gladys  recover  somewhat  from  the 
terrible  strain  she  had  undergone.  Naturally  or 
not,  she  had,  certainly,  been  quite  overcome  after 
the  first  relief  of  escape  was  passed,  and,  espe 
cially  since  her  father's  arrival,  had  seemed  very 
unlike  herself,  spending  languid,  spiritless  days 
on  the  couch,  tossing  restlessly  at  night,  and 
talking  incessantly  in  her  dreams. 

In  spite,  however,  of  the  doctor's  exhortations, 
Mr.  Lyman  could  not  be  easy.  Evidently  to  his 
mind  there  was  an  existing  cause  for  this  state  of 
things  which  did  not  lie  on  the  surface.  His  next 
question  was  an  abrupt  one  : 

"What  sort  of  fellow  is  this  young  Lindesay  ?  " 

"  That,  I  think,  must  be  apparent  to  the  most 


MR.    LYMAN  S    CHECKMATE.  121 

cursory  observer.  A  young  man  of  fine  mind,  one 
who  would  inevitably  make  a  brilliant  position  for 
himself  in  the  world  of  intellect  if  he  were  not 
hampered  and  kept  down  by  somewhat  adverse 
circumstances.  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  he 
may  not  do  it  yet,  as  fine  minds  do  often  triumph 
over  circumstances.  Noble  natures  do,  to  a  dead 
certainty,  but  Raymond's  is  a  little  warped  by 
kicking  against  the  pricks." 

So  the  good  doctor  murmured  on,  rather  to  him 
self  than  his  companion. 

"  However,  you  have  seen  him,"  he  added,  rous 
ing  himself.  "  How  does  he  strike  you  ? " 

"  Oh  !  an  original,  attractive  fellow,"  replied  Mr. 
Lyman  absently.  "You  speak  of  adverse  circum 
stances.  Now,  what  can  I  do  for  this  young  man  ? 
Think  what  I  owe  him." 

"  What  have  you  thought  of  doing  for  him  ? " 
queried  the  doctor,  with  a  sharp  side-glance. 

"  I  hardly  know  ;  nothing  seems  adequate.  You 
say  he  has  a  family  of  brothers  and  sisters  depend 
ent  on  him.  Might  I  not  educate  one  of  the  boys 
—  send  him  through  college  ?  " 

"There  is  but  one  boy  whom  Raymond  thinks 
fitted  to  receive  a  classical  education,  and  I  know 


122  MR.     LYMAN  S    CHECKMATE. 

of  friends  who  already  have  him  in  mind,"  said 
the  doctor  hastily,  forming  a  resolution  on  the 
spot.  "  Hal  Lindesay  is  a  brilliant  lad,  and  would 
do  credit  to  any  interest  that  might  be  used  to 
push  him  forward.  The  other  little  fellow  is  at  a 
public  school,  and  will  step  right  into  business 
from  the  bottom  of  the  ladder." 

"One  of  the  daughters,  then." 

"They  are  at  present  under  the  instruction  of 
an  excellent  mother.  By  and  by,  perhaps  "  — 

"But  I  should  prefer  doing  something  now," 
said  Mr.  Lyman  impatiently.  "  Is  there  no  way 
of  approaching  young  Lindesay  himself?  He  is 
very  proud,  I  see,  but  "  — 

"  As  proud  as  Lucifer,  and  as  ready  to  kindle 
as  the  matches  named  after  him,"  returned  the 
uncompromising  doctor.  "  Oh  no  !  you  can't  do 
anything  for  Raymond  individually.  His  tutor 
ing  ends  with  this  month.  His  course  at  the  law 
school  is  finished,  and  he  goes  to  New  York  to 
read  in  Joseph  White's  office." 

"  I  know  him  well,"  said  Mr.  Lyman  eagerly. 
"  I  am  glad  Lindesay  goes  to  New  York." 

"Oh!  you  can't  do  anything  for  him  there," 
said  the  doctor,  still  in  the  driest  of  all  dry  tones. 


MR.  LYMAN'S  CHECKMATE.  123 

"  Promotion  at  the  bar  is  slow,  at  best,  but  when 
it  comes,  Lindesay  will  owe  it  to  his  own  talents,  I 
fancy.  He  is  sure  to  rise." 

"  Then  the  young  man  has  positively  no  wants 
that  can  be  met  ?  "  said  Mr.  Lyman,  with  a  rather 
incredulous  smile. 

"  No  wants  ?  Bless  you,  yes  !  I  should  say 
that  Raymond  Lindesay,  take  him  as  he  stands, 
was  at  this  moment  as  aspiring  a  young  man  as 
any  in  these  United  States." 

"  But  are  not  his  aspirations  such  as  I  can 
further  ? " 

"That  is  precisely  the  question  you  must 
answer  yourself,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  doctor, 
with  very  significant  emphasis,  and  the  keenest  of 
glances.  "You  understand  me,  I  see." 

"I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  I  do,"  said  Mr. 
Lyman,  knitting  his  brows.  "Am  I  to  infer  —  do 
you  mean  " 

"  I  mean  that  I  can't  speak  any  more  plainly," 
said  Dr.  Forbes  quickly.  "You  have  drawn  your 
own  inferences,  as  I  saw  before  we  began  to  talk, 
from  your  interview  with  Raymond.  One  thing, 
however,  my  dear  Lyman,  I  must  say ;  I  must 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  you.  If  there  is  any 


124  MR-    LYMAN  S    CHECKMATE. 

blame  in  the  matter,  it  attaches  to  me.  I  forgot 
that  girls  are  young  women  the  moment  they 
cease  to  be  children,  so,  if  the  consequences  of 
my  forgetfulness  are  unwelcome  to  you,  lay  the 
blame  on  my  imprudence." 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear  doctor,"  said  Mr.  Lyman, 
with  all  his  own  suavity.  "  I  lay  the  blame  on  no 
one  —  on  nothing  but  unfortunate  juxtaposition. 
But  do  you  mean  "  — 

"  I  mean  to  say  nothing  more,"  said  the  doc 
tor  stoutly.  "  '  Vcrbinn  sapienti,'  Try  this  cigar, 
Lyman,  and  don't  be  uneasy  about  my  little 
patient.  There  are  no  symptoms  in  the  case  that 
are  not  entirely  accountable,  I  give  you  my  word 
for  it." 

The  doctor  was  called  away  here,  and  Mr. 
Lyman,  pacing  slowly  back  and  forth  on  the 
piazza,  was  left  to  ruminate  on  his  own  unwelcome 
reflections. 

It  would  have  been  hard  to  say  precisely  what 
had  given  rise  to  his  uneasiness.  When  he  and 
Lindesay  had  met,  the  cordiality  and  effusion  had 
naturally  been  on  his  own  side.  On  the  young 
man's  there  had  been  a  sort  of  shy,  proud  reserve, 
joined  with  a  keen  scrutiny  which  had  struck  him 


MR.    LVMAN  S    CHECKMATE.  125 

at  once  as  peculiar,  even  before  his  anxiety  about 
Gladys  had  made  him  suspect  a  reason  for  it. 
They  had  met  several  times  before  the  yacht  had 
left  the  island,  and  Mr.  Lyman  had  been  obliged 
to  own  to  himself,  with  secret  chagrin,  that  there 
was  in  Raymond  much  to  attract  a  fancy  less 
impressible  than  that  of  an  inexperienced  girl. 
Gladys'  name  had  scarcely  been  spoken  between 
them.  Raymond  had  barely  suffered  the  briefest 
mention  of  his  deed  of  heroism,  and  had  turned 
aside  all  Mr.  Lyman's  delicate  allusions  to  an 
"indebtedness  which  could  never  be  repaid." 
But  subtle  signs  are  often  more  unmistakable 
than  outspoken  words,  and  the  extremely  unwel 
come  character  of  Mr.  Lyman's  suspicions  only 
served  to  intensify  them. 

The  yacht  had  sailed  away  now,  and  Raymond 
had  accompanied  his  pupils  to  Cambridge.  Nor 
had  the  parting  with  Gladys  —  the  only  time  they 
had  seen  each  other  since  the  fire  —  been  such  as 
to  excite  the  slightest  remark  even  from  the  ob 
servant  Edith  who  was  present.  Gladys  had 
raised  herself  on  her  elbow  as  he  approached  her 
couch,  and  held  out  her  hand  with  no  more 
warmth  of  greeting  than  was  natural  and  fitting 


126  MR.  LYMAN'S  CHECKMATE. 

towards  one  who  had  saved  her  life.  There  was 
barely  a  deeper  flush  on  her  cheek  as  he  took  her 
hand,  and,  for  any  words  that  were  exchanged 
between  them,  they  might  have  been  mere  pass 
ing  acquaintances. 

"Papa  tells  me  he  has  seen  you,"  Gladys  said. 

"  Yes,  several  times,  and  he  is  kind  enough  to 
hope  we  shall  meet  in  Boston." 

"Then  you  do  not  go  at  once  to  New  York  ? " 

"  Not  for  several  weeks.  I  have  a  good  deal  to 
occupy  me  in  Cambridge  before  I  finally  leave  it. 
But  you  are  going  to  New  York,  they  tell  me." 

"Yes;  to  Mrs.  Stanhope,  for  a  little  visit  before 
winter  begins.  I  had  written  to  tell  her  I  should 
come,  on  the  day  of  the  fire,  and  now  the  doctor 
thinks  I  had  better  go  a  little  earlier  than  I  had 
planned.  But  it  will  not  be  for  long." 

"Let  it  be  for  thorough  rest,  then.  You  do 
not  know  yet  how  much  strength  is  required  for  a 
young  lady's  campaign  in  the  gay  world." 

Gladys  laughed,  and  held  out  her  hand  as  he 
rose  to  go.  "  Good-by,  then,  and  thank  you  a 
thousand  times."  There  was  a  warm  and  friendly 
pressure  of  the  hand,  and  so  they  parted.  Truly 
a  paucity  of  words,  if  words  were  all ! 


MR.    LYMAN  S    CHECKMATE.  I2/ 

The  gay  summer  birds  had  all  flitted  from  Bar 
Harbor  now,  and,  so  soon  as  Gladys  was  able 
to  bear  the  journey,  Mr.  Lyman  carried  her  on  to 
New  York  for  a  fortnight  of  entire  rest  such  as 
Mrs.  Stanhope's  familiar  presence  and  tender  care 
could  best  afford  her.  Her  regrets  at  going  before 
the  refurnishing  of  the  house  were  softened  by  the 
thought  of  the  delightfully  congenial  occupation  it 
would  afford  aunt  Laura,  and  the  promise  that  all 
the  final  embellishments  should  be  left  until  her 
return.  Her  absence  seemed  to  restore  her,  in 
her  father's  thoughts,  to  the  position  of  a  little 
schoolgirl,  which  she  had  occupied  there  all 
through  the  past  year,  and  gradually  his  uneasi 
ness  began  to  subside. 

Mr.  Lindesay  had  called  once  at  Mrs.  Water- 
ston's  house  where  her  brother  was  staying,  but 
had  found  no  one  at  home.  Mr.  Lyman  had 
written  a  note,  saying  on  paper  all  that  he  had 
found  himself  unable  to  say  face  to  face.  To  this 
note  no  reply  had  yet  been  received,  but,  so  well 
do  words  at  times  supply  the  place  of  deeds,  that 
Mr.  Lyman  almost  felt  as  if  his  obligation  were 
discharged,  and  the  disagreeable  recollection  of  it 
was  already  beginning  to  fade  from  his  mind. 


128  MR.  LYMAN'S  CHECKMATE. 

On  the  morning  before  Gladys'  return,  however, 
a  thick  letter,  in  unknown  handwriting,  met  his 
eyes  as  he  entered  his  study  in  the  newly-opened 
old  house.  He  broke  the  seal,  and  saw,  with  a 
peculiarly  unpleasant  sensation,  the  name  of 
Raymond  Lindesay  at  the  bottom  of  the  page. 
On  the  enclosed  note  which  dropped  from  the 
envelope,  there  was  no  address,  nor  did  it  need 
any. 

The  letter  to  himself  began  somewhat  abruptly: 

You  ask  me  if  there  is  nothing  you  can  do  to  further  the  inter 
ests  of  my  family,  adding,  very  kindly,  that  nothing  you  could  do 
would  discharge  your  sense  of  obligation  to  myself.  In  spite  of 
the  regret  I  have  already  expressed,  that  you  should  allow  so 
needless  a  feeling  to  weigh  upon  you,  I  might  have  accepted  your 
offer  in  behalf  of  my  brother,  since  I  would  not  willingly  stand  in 
his  light.  Happily,  the  kindness  of  an  old  friend  renders  it  un 
necessary.  I  have  no  wishes  for  myself  that  could  be  met  in  the 
way  you  have  in  mind,  for,  however  arrogant  the  claim  I  am  about 
to  make  may  appear  to  you,  I  beg  you  to  believe  that  I  do  not 
base  it  on  anything  I  have  been  happy  enough  to  do  for  your 
daughter.  If  what  I  ask  is  unattainable,  you  will  readily  see  that 
I  can  accept  of  nothing  else  at  your  hands. 

Briefly,  then,  I  love  her  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  As  one's 
heart  is  not  under  the  control  of  worldly  wisdom,  I  do  not  offer 
any  excuse  for  the  feeling;  but,  as  I  well  know  how  audacious 
such  a  passion  must  seem  to  you,  I  should  scarcely  have  felt  my 
self  called  upon  to  avow  it,  had  I  not  dared  to  hope  that  she,  too, 
loved  me.  I  know  perfectly  well  all  that  you  would  say  to  me,  if  we 
were  talking  face  to  face,  of  her  youth,  her  ignorance  of  the  world, 
my  own  inequality  of  fortune,  my  selfishness  in  seeking  to  bind 
her.  I  know  it  all,  but  it  seems  to  me  nothing  before  the  simple 


MR.    LYMAN  S    CHECKMATE.  I2Q 

fact  of  the  belief  which  I  have  just  expressed.  My  fortunes  may 
mend,  and  my  love  is  at  least  generous  enough  to  ask  for  no  open 
recognition  until  she  shall  have  seen  the  world,  with  the  most  un 
limited  freedom  to  withdraw,  if,  after  having  seen  it,  her  feelings 
should  have  changed. 

The  one  impossible  thing  seems  to  me  silence,  believing  as  I 
do,  and  I  have,  therefore,  written  a  letter  to  your  daughter,  which 
you  will  read  or  not  as  you  choose.  So  far  I  have  spoken  with 
confidence,  but  you  know  little  of  such  a  love  as  mine,  if  you  do 
not  know  that  its  misgivings  are  at  least  equal  to  its  boldness. 
It  is  possible  that  I  may,  after  all,  have  been  mistaken  in  my 
belief.  As  I  well  know  what  confidence  and  affection  exists  be 
tween  Miss  Lyman  and  yourself,  I  am  willing  to  trust  to  your 
knowledge  of  her  heart.  If  I  have  been  blind,  presumptuous, 
mad  enough  to  fancy  a  thing  which  you  know  to  be  impossible, 
destroy  this  letter  and  do  not  send  me  any  reply.  It  will  be  un 
necessary,  for  I  shall  understand  only  too  well.  But,  if  you  have 
even  a  suspicion  that  I  am  right,  I  trust  to  your  honor,  however 
unwelcome  my  proposal  may  be,  to  let  me  have  my  answer  from 
your  daughter's  own  lips.  RAYMOND  LINDESAY. 

For  some  minutes  after  reading  this  letter,  Mr. 
Lyman  sat  motionless,  with  his  head  on  his  hand. 
A  thousand  painful  thoughts  filled  his  mind. 
That  letter  appealed  to  his  heart,  as  it  must  to  the 
heart  of  any  man  who  knew  the  depth  of  a  true 
love  :  his  belief  that  Gladys  returned  the  feeling 
differed  from  Raymond's  only  as  fears  differ  from 
hopes  :  he  believed  himself  capable  of  any  sacri 
fice  of  his  personal  wishes  for  her  happiness,  and 
yet  —  was  this  for  her  happiness  ? 

Mr.    Lyman   was  a   proud    man ;    that   was   an 


I3O  MR.    LYMAN  S    CHECKMATE. 

inheritance  which  had  come  down  to  him  through 
several  generations.  The  thought  that  his  daugh 
ter,  the  one  precious  little  scion  of  his  race,  should 
bear  a  name  which  had  been  tarnished  by  even  a 
suspicion  of  dishonor,  was  intolerable  to  him. 
Difference  of  wealth,  of  social  position,  he  told 
himself  (and  believed  that  he  was  sincere  in  saying 
so),  he  could  have  cheerfully  put  out  of  sight  for 
Gladys'  sake,  but  this !  What  dreams  he  had  had 
for  her !  How  dear  her  beauty  and  fascination 
had  been  to  him !  As  he  sat  there,  the  years 
which  had  passed  since  her  mother's  death  —  the 
only  years  in  which  he  had  fully  known  his  child 
—  rose  before  him.  He  thought  of  their  rides  to 
gether,  of  the  long  expeditions  in  quest  of  pict 
ures,  of  Charles  Willoughby's  portrait,  of  her  child 
ish  indignation  at  his  daring  to  fall  in  love  with 
her.  He  could  hear  Gladys'  voice  now  :  "  Please, 
papa,  if  such  a  thing  happens  again,  answer  for 
me  —  you  know  quite  well  what  I  should  say  !  " 

And  had  not  the  same  thing  happened  again  ? 
Why  not  ?  How  short  a  time  had  passed  since 
then  —  scarcely  more  than  a  year  !  Was  the  child 
already  a  woman  ?  Was  this  so  different  an  experi 
ence,  and  wherein  did  the  difference  lie  ? 


MR.    LYMAN  S    CHECKMATE.  13! 

Should  he  give  her  the  letter?  If  his  foolish 
fears  had  been  groundless,  what  surer  mode  of 
refuting  them  ?  But  involuntarily  he  shrank  from 
the  thought  of  putting  them  to  the  test.  He  re 
membered  the  restless  nights  when  he  had  watched 
so  anxiously  beside  her  ;  he  remembered  the  name 
which  had  come  oftenest  from  her  lips  in  her  un 
conscious  murmurings. 

No,  he  would  not  think  of  that,  yet ;  nothing 
need  be  decided  to-night.  He  would  wait.  To 
morrow  Gladys  would  return  from  New  York  ;  he 
would  observe  her  closely,  and,  if  she  showed  any 
change,  if  he  had  any  real  tangible  reason  for  the 
step,  why,  then—  At  all  events,  he  would  wait, 
and,  firm  in  that  determination,  at  least,  Mr.  Ly- 
man  dropped  the  letter  into  the  most  secret  drawer 
of  his  study-table. 


CHAPTER   X. 

A    MODERN    BARBARA. 

.     .     .     What  if  I  fail  of  my  purpose  here  ? 

It  is  but  to  keep  the  nerves  at  strain, 
To  dry  one's  eyes  and  laugh  at  a  fall, 

And,  baffled,  get  up  to  begin  again, — 
So  the  chase  takes  up  one's  life,  that's  all. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 

WHAT  girl  is  there  to  whom  her  first  sea 
son  "  out  "  is  not  a  delight  ?  No  girl,  cer 
tainly,  who  is  blessed  with  beauty,  health  and  spirits 
such  as  Gladys  Lyman  possessed.  She  returned 
from  New  York  in  quite  her  normal  condition,  so 
blooming  and  beautiful  that  even  an  observer,  who 
had  not  her  father's  bias  towards  favorable  deci 
sion,  might  have  concluded  there  could  be  no 
hidden  thought  preying  on  her  mind,  no  secret 
longing  gnawing  at  her  heart. 

Weeks  passed  on,  and  balls,  receptions  and  din 
ner  parties  succeeded  each  other  in  one  unbroken 
round.  If  all  life  were  not  "in  a  whirl,"  as  Gladys 
had  feared,  it  was  only  because  she  had  the  secret 

132 


A    MODERN    BARBARA.  133 

of  keeping  her  head  steady.  But  though,  to  all 
appearance,  the  gayest  of  the  gay,  courted,  admired 
and  flattered  as  scarcely  any  other  girl  was,  there 
was  something  in  Gladys  which  preserved  her  from 
intoxication.  She  enjoyed  with  all  her  heart,  ac 
cepted  the  admiration  and  the  homage  with  as 
much  pleasure  as  any  other  young  and  beautiful  girl, 
but  remained  throughout  as  simple  and  unspoiled 
as  when  we  first  met  her  on  the  Bar  Harbor  boat. 
Whether  this  were  due  to  a  quality  of  mind,  or 
some  saving  sentiment  of  the  heart,  her  father  had 
not  yet  determined. 

True  to  his  resolve,  he  had  watched  her  intently  ; 
at  times  there  was  a  thoughtful  expression  on  the 
brow,  a  shade  of  weariness  about  the  mouth,  a 
sigh  when  she  was  suddenly  aroused  from  unusual 
silence,  but  these  signs  did  not,  of  necessity,  mean 
anything.  She  had,  to  a  rare  degree,  the  faculty 
of  interesting  herself  absorbingly  in  whatever  pur 
suit  might  occupy  her  at  the  moment,  and  no  qual 
ity  so  completely  baffles  observation  as  this. 

Madge  Waterston  found  her  so  absorbed  one 
morning  when,  after  wandering  through  the  house 
in  search  of  her,  she  tracked  her  at  last  to  the 
room  in  the  upper  story  which  she  had  appro- 


134  A    MODERN    BARBARA. 

priated  as  her  studio.  There  she  found  her  before 
her  easel,  clad  in  a  blue  linen  blouse,  and  so  en 
tirely  lost  in  a  charcoal  study  of  her  father,  that 
she  scarcely  looked  up  at  her  cousin's  entrance. 

"  Just  for  all  the  world  as  if  you  had  not  been 
dancing  till  the  small  hours!"  Madge  exclaimed, 
in  a  half-aggrieved  tone.  "And  I  believe  you  will 
work  as  hard  here  at  your  pictures  all  winter  as  if 
you  were  the  plainest  wall-flower  in  the  crowd !  " 

"What  can  that  have  to  do  with  my  painting? " 
Gladys  exclaimed,  with  a  merry  burst  of  laughter. 

"  A  great  deal,  if  you  look  at  it  in  the  right  way. 
I  believe  in  things  being  justly  distributed  in  this 
world,  and  that  a  girl  who  has  a  right  to  look  for 
the  largest  share  of  the  attention  and  the  bouquets, 
shouldn't  try  to  usurp  the  public  recognition  of 
industry  and  talent  which  less  fortunate  girls  fall 
back  upon  for  consolation.  My  ideas  are  not  '  high- 
toned/  as  Edith  often  tells  me,  and  very  likely  you 
don't  know  what  I  mean  by  this  one,  but  I  say 
it,  nevertheless." 

"  Yes,  I  understand  what  you  mean,"  said  Gladys, 
"  and  I  half  agree  with  you,  too.  But,  Madge,  the 
difference  is  that  I  don't  look  for  public  recog 
nition  at  all,  but,  when  I  paint,  do  it  just  for  my 


A    MODERN    BARBARA.  135 

own  good  and  content.  I  don't  believe,  though, 
that  the  girls  who  have  real  talent  do  fall  back  on 
it  for  '  consolation '  as  you  say.  They  draw  or 
play  because  they  must,  because  they  have  the 
power  and  must  use  it,  and,  so  far  from  being  the 
second-best  thing  to  them,  it  is  the  very  highest. 
Now  I  have  only  a  little  bit  of  talent,  and  shall 
probably  do  less  with  it,  even,  than  I  might  if  it 
were  not  for  the  going  into  society  which  comes 
naturally  in  my  way.  But  all  the  same  I  go  on 
trying,  because  I  really  believe  that  every  girl 
is  happier  for  having  some  steady,  quiet,  sheet- 
anchor  of  an  occupation,  something  which  she  can, 
at  least,  try  for  and  work  up  to,  if  nobody  ever 
sees  what  she  attempts  except  herself.  If  the  op 
portunity  ever  comes  for  her  to  use  it,  she  has  the 
power ;  if  it  never  does,  she  has  had  the  help  and 
satisfaction.  That  is  my  idea  of  woman's  work." 
"  Who  would  ever  suspect  her  of  being  the  belle 
of  a  ball-room  ?  "  laughed  Madge.  "  While  I  am 
out  trying  to  recruit  my  looks  after  last  night  with 
a  mouthful  of  fresh  air,  she  is  drawing  and  philos 
ophizing  at  the  same  time,  and  as  blooming  as 
ever  in  spite  of  it  all  !  Uncle  Gordon,  this  will  be 
a  capital  likeness  of  you." 


136  A    MODERN    BARBARA. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  said  Gladys  earnestly. 
"  Now  to  me  there  is  something  about  it  that  is 
not  like  papa  —  lines  about  the  mouth  and  eyes 
that  I  never  noticed  before.  I  was  thinking  of  it 
as  you  came  in." 

The  conversation  turned  upon  topics  of  girlish 
interest  and  gossip,  and  it  was  not  till  Madge's 
departure  that  Gladys,  taking  up  her  charcoal 
again,  returned  to  her  interrupted  train  of  thought. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  slowly,  standing  before  the 
easel,  and  looking  intently,  first  at  the  sketch, 
then  at  her  father.  "  I  do  not  like  this  as  a  pict 
ure  of  you,  and  yet  it  certainly  is  you  as  you  have 
looked  since  I  began  it.  There  are  lines  here, 
and  puckers  there,"  emphasizing  them  with  her 
charcoal,  "which  are  not  natural  to  you.  If  it 
were  any  one  else,  I  should  say,  '  that  person  has 
something  on  his  mind.'  '  Mr.  Lyman's  face  un 
derwent  an  involuntary  change. 

"I  believe  I  will  not  try  any  more  to-day," 
said  the  girl,  and,  laying  down  the  charcoal,  she 
came  over  to  her  father's  chair,  and  seated  herself 
on  his  knee,  putting  her  arms  lovingly  round  his 
neck.  "  But  there  is  nothing  that  troubles  you,  is 
there  ?  You  would  tell  me  if  there  were  ?  " 


A    MODERN    BARBARA.  137 

"  I  would  tell  you,  certainly,  if  there  were  any 
thing  that  troubled  me  on  my  own  account,  my 
darling." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  there  is  anything  about  me 
that  troubles  you  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  searchingly,  while  a  brighter 
rose  flushed  her  cheek. 

"  No,  no,  dear,  not  in  the  way  you  mean.  But 
of  course  your  future  does  occupy  me  a  great  deal. 
I  want  it  to  be  the  very  brightest  we  can  choose 
together." 

"  It  looks  very  bright,  doesn't  it  ?  "  said  the  girl, 
with  a  smile.  "  People  would  say  so  if  it  is  true 
that  I  may  choose." 

Something  in  her  tone  belied  the  smile,  and  her 
father,  looking  intently  in  her  face,  exclaimed, 
"Why,  Gladys,  what  is  the  matter?  Are  you  not 
happy,  my  love  ?  " 

"  Yes,  usually,"  she  replied,  half-laughing, 
though  she  turned  away  her  face. 

"  But  you  are  enjoying  your  winter,  surely  ? " 

"Very  much;  though  I  don't  think  it  quite 
goes  to  the  very  heart  of  me.  But  this  is  silly 
talk.  Papa,  you  talk  of  our  choosing  my  future ; 
have  you  ever  thought  of  making  a  choice  ? " 


138  A    MODERN     BARBARA. 

Mr.  Lyman  smiled.  "  Words  are  somewhat 
superfluous,  I  think,  aren't  they  ?  I  have  thought 
what  I  should  like,  certainly.  I  suppose  you  don't 
need  any  very  explicit  explanation,  Gladys  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  suppose  not,"  said  the  girl,  blushing, 
but  speaking,  nevertheless,  with  a  grave  simplicity 
and  unconsciousness  of  self  that  was  almost  child 
like  in  its  frankness.  "  Would  that  really  make 
you  so  happy  ?  " 

"  It  would,  certainly,  but  the  question  is  rather 
of  your  happiness  than  mine.  However,  we  have 
had  quite  enough  psychological  talk  for  the  morn 
ing  after  a  ball,  so  go  and  put  on  your  habit,  dear. 
You  know  we  are  to  ride  with  Mr.  Amory." 

This  was  no  infrequent  occurrence,  for  Mr. 
Amory 's  friendship  with  Mr.  Lyman  was  scarcely 
less  remarked  than  his  admiration  for  his  daugh 
ter.  There  was  a  similarity  of  individual  taste 
and  inherited  prejudice  between  the  older  and  the 
younger  man  which  naturally  drew  them  together, 
and,  if  Mr.  Lyman  had  been  asked  to  choose  an 
ideal  husband  for  Gladys,  it  is  probable  that  his 
choice  would  have  fallen  on  Morgan  Amory. 
About  most  of  the  younger  men  in  society  there 
was  a  crudeness  which  often  grated  on  his  pol- 


A 

A    MODERN    BARBARA.  139 

ished  sensibilities,  but  Amory  had  passed  that 
stage,  and,  if  any  prejudices  existed  in  the  father's 
mind  in  favor  of  qualities  of  the  heart  rather  than 
culture  and  refinement,  their  deficiency  was  appar 
ently  made  up  by  the  fact  that  Morgan  Amory 
was,  for  the  time  being,  as  thoroughly  and  earn 
estly  in  love  as  it  was  in  his  nature  to  be. 

This  was  no  secret  in  society.  Already  Gladys 
was  beginning  to  be  looked  upon  as,  in  some 
measure,  appropriated,  although  it  was  not  easy  to 
discourage  general  attention  when  such  a  face  was 
in  question.  No  girl  could  have  been  unconscious 
of  such  marked  admiration,  but  Gladys  could  not 
be  said  either  to  encourage  or  discourage  it. 
That  she  liked  Mr.  Amory  her  father  had  no 
doubt,  but  whether  she  did  more  than  this,  a 
wiser  than  he  would  have  found  it  hard  to  decide. 
The  little  talk  between  them  in  the  studio  had 
been  the  first  serious  approach  to  the  subject,  and 
whether  it  were  to  be  regarded  as  giving  ground 
for  hope  or  for  fears,  Mr.  Lyman  was  wholly  un 
able  to  tell. 

As  spring  came  on  Gladys  began  to  droop,  and 
her  father,  always  anxiously  on  the  watch,  at  once 
appealed  to  her  old  friend,  Dr.  Forbes. 


I4O  A    MODERN    BARBARA. 

"  Do  you  think  the  winter  has  been  too  much 
for  her?" 

"  Oh,  no  !  though  our  American  girls  do  live 
through  half  a  lifetime  in  one  season.  But  it  is 
only  skin-deep  with  Miss  Gladys.  No,  the  mis 
chief  doesn't  lie  there." 

"  Possibly  I  am  over-anxious,"  said  Mr.  Lyman, 
who,  ever  since  the  summer,  had  had  his  own  rea 
sons  for  dread  of  the  keen-eyed  doctor;  "but  her 
mother  was  so  delicate !  Certainly  no  girl  in  society 
this  winter  has  looked  more  blooming  than  Gladys." 

"  Exactly.  If  Shakespeare  had  lived  in  the 
nineteenth  century,  he  would  never  have  written  a 
line  about  'green  and  yellow  melancholy,'  or  'con 
cealment  preying  on  her  damask  cheek.'  Our 
American  girls  may  be  impressible  enough,  but 
they  are  made  of  different  fibre  from  that." 

"  Do  you  think  her  depressed,  then  ?  "  asked  the 
anxious  father.  "  Would  you  advise  my  taking 
her  to  Europe  for  the  summer  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  by  all  means  ;  though  it  is  often  an  open 
question  whether  distance  acts  as  a  remedy  or  the 
reverse." 

Mr.  Lyman  was  fain  to  be  content  with  this 
reply,  and  the  European  trip  was  decided  on. 


A    MODERN    BARBARA.  14! 

Mr.  Amory  followed  a  few  weeks  later,  and,  in 
the  course  of  the  summer,  news  came  over  the 
water  of  the  engagement. 

"  Nobody  is  in  the  least  surprised,"  wrote  Madge, 
"and  I,  certainly,  have  less  cause  to  be  so  than 
any  one  else,  for,  if  you  remember,  I  selected  Mr. 
Amory  as  your  especial  perquisite  before  you  even 
reached  Bar  Harbor.  But  how  strangely  things 
do  come  about !  There  is  a  rumor  that  Raymond 
Lindesay  is  engaged  to  Anna  Clifford.  It  has 
been  contradicted,  to  be  sure,  but,  then,  I  often 
notice  that  rumor  is  only  a  little  too  early  for  the 
actual  event.  It  was  very  easy  to  see,  last  summer, 
that  she  had  it  in  view.  Anna,  you  know,  appre 
ciates  brains  very  highly,  knowing  that  her  own 
family  are  rather  scantily  provided  with  them.  As 
for  Mr.  Lindesay,  no  one,  of  course,  could  doubt 
what  the  attraction  to  him  would  be." 


CHAPTER   XI. 


A    MEETING. 


Must  meeting  be 


Never  before  we  die  ? 

Dear  soul,  not  so  ! 

For  time  doth  keep  for  us  some  happy  years, 
And  God  hath  portioned  us  our  smiles  and  tears. 

EDWIN  ARNOLD. 

WHY,  who  is  —  " 
"  Surely  you  have  not  forgotten  her  ? 
That  is  Mrs.  Morgan  Amory  with  her  husband. 
She  is  not  so  much  changed  since  she  was  Miss 
Lyman;  I  believe  people  generally  call  her  even 
more  beautiful." 

And  Anna  Clifford  looked  sharply  at  Lindesay, 
as  she  spoke. 

"  Very  much  more  beautiful,"  he  rejoined, 
quietly  resuming  the  attitude  from  which  he  had 
started  as  he  saw  the  couple  entering  the  crowded 
drawing-room  on  one  of  Judge  Clifford's  reception 
nights. 

"Are  they  staying  in  New  York,  then  ? " 
142 


A    MEETING.  143 

"  For  a  short  time  only  ;  they  are  visiting  Mrs. 
Stanhope.  It  is  Gladys'  first  appearance  here 
since  her  marriage.  What  an  air  of  long-suffering 
Mr.  Amory  does  wear !  I  wonder  if  a  wife  is  as 
much  of  a  bore  to  him  as  everything  else  in 
existence  ! " 

As  Anna  stepped  forward  to  receive  the  new 
comers,  Lindesay  disappeared,  unremarked,  through 
the  doorway  of  the  little  conservatory.  He  felt  as 
if  a  moment's  preparation  were  a  positive  neces 
sity  before  he  could  meet  her  calmly  and  noncha 
lantly  like  any  other  guest  of  the  evening. 

It  was  not  easy  to  forget  that  long  winter  of 
dead  silence,  the  days  and  weeks  and  months  of 
expectancy  fading  at  last  into  a  merciful  hope 
lessness.  And  he  had  been  mistaken,  after  all ! 
That  thought  was  the  bitterest  gall  to  his  pride. 
He  could  have  cursed  his  folly  as  he  recalled  the 
letter  in  which  he  had  shown  out  his  heart  so 
openly.  Her  feeling  had  been  pity  only,  a  sweet 
child's  pity  which  he  had  mistaken  for  the  love 
she  had  awakened  in  him.  And  yet  he  could  not 
hate  her  for  it  as  he  might  have  hated  another 
woman.  Never,  it  seemed,  could  the  memory  of 
those  sweet,  girlish  tones  and  looks  bring  any- 


144  A    MEETING. 

thing  but  tenderness  to  his  heart.  Yet,  when  he 
fancied  Mr.  Lyman's  contemptuous  smile  and 
careless  shrug  as  he  read  the  letter,  the  iron 
entered  his  very  soul,  and  the  softened  mood 
turned  again  to  bitterness. 

Then  came  the  news  of  Gladys'  engagement. 
It  was  no  surprise,  certainly.  He  might  have 
known  that  she  was  reserved  for  a  cold,  selfish 
worldling  like  Morgan  Amory ;  it  was  no  surprise 
and,  surely,  no  disappointment,  but  only  from 
that  day  did  Lindesay  begin  to  think  possible  for 
himself  an  engagement  which  ambition  might 
have  suggested  long  before.  What  did  it  matter  ? 
Love  seemed  a  dream  of  the  past.  Why  struggle 
on  with  a  dreary  present,  when  here  at  his  elbow 
ease,  and  freedom  from  care,  seemed  waiting  for 
him  ?  Why  loiter  ?  What  signified  the  relin 
quishing  of  one  aspiration  more  than  another  ? 
And  yet,  even  now,  Anna  Clifford  was  not  his 
betrothed  ;  he  almost  felt  to-night,  as  he  looked  at 
the  lovely,  well-remembered  face,  that  she  never 
would  be. 

Gladys  still  stood  talking  with  Anna,  and  glanc 
ing  with  a  half-amused  light  in  her  eyes  across  the 
room  at  her  husband.  Anna's  ill-natured  con 


A    MEETING.  145 

jecture  was  quite  groundless ;  he  was  still  far  too 
much  the  lover  for  the  bored  expression  to  appear 
in  his  face  when  it  was  turned  upon  his  wife ;  but 
what  well-bred  individual  could  possibly  wear  more 
strongly  the  Nil  admirari  expression  than  he  in 
general  society  ? 

He  had  just  met  and  been  stopped  by  a  tower 
ing,  broad-shouldered  figure  who  was  making  his 
way  as  rapidly  as  the  crowded  rooms,  his  own 
stalwart  proportions  and  the  many  friendly  deten 
tions  would  allow,  towards  the  door. 

"  What !  you  here,  Amory  ?  " 

"Ah,  Forbes  !  I  thought  you  on  the  other  side." 

"On  this  side  at  last,  though  I  am  not  station 
ary  yet.  Just  now  I  am  going  South." 

Gladys  heard  the  hearty,  pleasant  tones,  but 
not  the  words ;  then,  as  the  speaker  advanced  to 
take  leave  of  Anna,  she  caught  a  glance  from 
a  pair  of  bright,  keen,  earnest  eyes  that  struck 
her  as  familiar.  Where  had  she  seen  that  face  ? 
There  was  no  time  to  ask  at  the  moment,  how 
ever,  for,  as  Anna  moved  towards  the  stranger,  a 
voice  beside  her  said  "Mrs.  Amory!"  and,  turn 
ing,  she  found  herself  face  to  face  with  Raymond 
Lindesay. 


146  A    MEETING. 

It  was  no  shock  of  surprise  such  as  Raymond 
himself  had  felt  in  seeing  her,  for  she  had  known, 
in  coming  to  Judge  Clifford's,  that  he  must  be 
there;  and  yet,  as  his  eyes  met  hers,  a  momentary 
feeling  of  dizziness  and  faintness  came  over  her. 
It  was  only  the  tone  of  the  voice,  the  recollection 
that  it  brought  to  her  mind  of  that  summer  day 
and  the  rescue  from  the  fire.  Involuntarily  she 
glanced  at  his  cheek.  There  were  still  the  red 
scars  left  by  the  fiery  breath  of  the  flames,  the  more 
apparent  now  from  his  unusual  pallor,  and,  at  the 
sight,  with  a  rush  of  grateful  emotion,  she  held 
out  her  hands. 

"And  so  we  meet  at  last — almost  like  stran 
gers  ! "  he  said. 

"  Like  strangers  ?  Oh  no,  indeed  !  It  is  a  long, 
long  time,  and  all  that  has  happened  makes  it 
seem  even  longer,  but  you  could  not  be  a  stranger 
to  me !  How  could  I  ever  forget  you  ?  I  never 
have  forgotten." 

"I  would  gladly  think  you  had,"  he  replied, 
with  a  peculiar  expression.  "  Forgetfulness,  you 
know,  is  a  perfectly  legitimate  excuse  for  silence." 

"  Silence  ? "  she  repeated,  with  a  half-smile,  "  why, 
it  would  have  been  speaking  across  land  and  sea ! 


A    MEETING.  147 

I  would  so  gladly  have  heard  something  of  you. 
Pray  believe,  Mr.  Lindesay,  that  there  is  no  one 
in  the  world  of  whom  I  would  more  gladly  hear 
happy  tidings." 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly,  as  if  surprised  and 
perplexed  by  his  strange  manner. 

"  Then  you  have  heard  no  news  of  me  ?  " 

"  Not  until  very  lately ;  and  even  now  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  may  congratulate  you." 

"  It  might  be  a  little  premature,"  he  answered 
dryly.  "Then  your  father  never  told  you,  Mrs. 
Amory,  that  he  had  heard  from  me  ? " 

"  You  wrote  to  papa  ?  " 

"And  to  you." 

"To  me?"  Her  color  changed,  and  she  grew 
so  pale  that  Lindesay  started  forward,  thinking 
that  she  was  about  to  faint,  and  shocked  at  his 
own  selfish  thoughtlessness.  But  she  made  a 
movement  of  her  hand  to  restrain  him,  and,  recov 
ering  herself  with  wonderful  self-control,  she  paused 
a  few  minutes  to  collect  her  thoughts,  and  then 
spoke  quite  in  her  natural  tone : 

"There  has  been  some  strange  misunderstand 
ing,  Mr.  Lindesay.  What  it  is  we  do  not  know, 
and  perhaps  we  never  shall  know.  All  our  circum- 


148  A    MEETING. 

stances  have  changed  since  then,  and  to  look  back 
on  what  is  forever  past,  is  never  wise.  But  this, 
at  least,  I  can  say  —  I  could  have  said  it  all  through 
these  two  years  —  I  think  of  you  often  and  grate 
fully  as  a  friend  to  whom  I  owe  more  than  I  can 
put  into  words,  and  your  happiness  will  be  as  dear 
—  oh  !  dearer  to  me  than  my  own." 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  in  her 
beautiful  eyes  which  seemed  to  him  scarcely  less 
than  angelic. 

They  were  standing  in  the  little  conservatory, 
into  which  he  had  led  her  for  more  air ;  no  one 
was  there  except  themselves.  For  a  moment  he 
said  nothing ;  only  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  To  me  there  will  always  be  a  difference  for 
what  I  have  heard  to-night,"  he  said  at  last. 
"Whatever  you  may  hear  of  me  in  future,  what 
ever  step  I  may  think  it  best  to  take,  remember  it 
will  be  with  feelings  very,  very  different  for  what 
I  know  now.  God  bless  you  !  " 

Nothing  more  was  said  between  them  except 
what  any  two  friends  meeting  after  a  prolonged 
absence,  might  have  said,  and  whatever  excite 
ment  Gladys  may  have  felt,  was  postponed — as 
we  do  sometimes  postpone  over-mastering  emotion, 


A    MEETING.  149 

even  in  our  most  agitating  moments  —  until  she 
was  seated  in  the  carriage  beside  her  husband. 
The  painful  thought  was  not,  indeed,  so  much  of 
Lindesay  —  since  healthy  minds  seldom  dwell  long 
on  what  migJit  have  been  —  as  of  the  father  whom 
she  had  almost  adored,  and  who  had  so  cruelly 
deceived  her.  She  drew  a  long,  deep  sigh,  putting 
her  hand,  with  an  involuntary  movement  for  sym 
pathy,  through  her  husband's  arm. 

"I  knew  you  would  be  over-tired,  Gladys,"  he 
said,  in  a  vexed  tone.  "  What  can  be  a  greater 
bore  than  such  a  crowd  as  that  ? " 

"  Oh  no  !  I  am  not  tired,"  she  said,  making  an 
effort  to  speak  brightly.  "  Tell  me  who  that  Go 
liath  was,  with  whom  you  were  talking  when  we 
first  went  in." 

"A  classmate,  Stephen  Forbes." 

"What!  our  dear  old  doctor's  son?  Why, 
that  accounts  for  it,  of  course  !  " 

"  For  what  ?  " 

"  Only  for  my  thinking  I  had  seen  him  some 
where.  It  was  his  likeness  to  the  portrait  over 
the  doctor's  study  table.  But  I  should  like  to 
know  him,  Morgan.  Can  you  not  bring  him  to 
see  me? " 


I5O  A    MEETING. 

"  He  is  rather  a  quixotic  fellow,  though  there 
is  a  good  deal  that  is  fine  in  him.  But  he  is  only 
here  on  a  flying  visit.  He  told  me  he  was  going 
South,  and  I  haven't  a  doubt  it  is  to  some  of  the 
yellow  fever  cities.  However,  I'll  look  him  up  if 
you  wish.  He  has  never  been  a  stickler  for  eti 
quette,  and  I  do  not  suppose  he  has  ever  heard  of 
my  marriage." 

Mr.  Amory  called  the  next  day,  accordingly,  at 
Stephen  Forbes'  hotel,  but  found  that  he  had 
left  that  morning  for  Memphis. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

A    CITY    OF    THE    DEAD. 

His  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  itself  did  lay. 

WORDSWORTH. 

GOOD  God  !  What  desolation  !  " 
The  exclamation  might  readily  have  risen 
to  the  lips  of  any  man  who,  coming  from  populous 
Northern  cities,  had  walked  through  the  streets  of 
Memphis  in  that  terrible  autumn  of  1878.  Grass- 
grown  streets,  strewn  with  lime,  deserted  shops, 
houses  that  looked  like  the  abodes  of  death  ;  hun 
gry,  crying  children,  forlorn,  straying  animals. 
No  one  was  abroad  for  pleasure  or  profit,  and  only 
a  few,  physician,  priest  or  Sister  of  Mercy,  flitting 
from  house  to  house  in  overworked  response  to 
urgent  need.  The  exclamation  might  have  been  a 
prayer ;  with  Doctor  Stephen  Forbes  it  was,  also, 
a  yearning  to  help. 

He  had  returned  from  Europe  during  the  sum 
mer  and,  before  fully  deciding  whether  or  not  to 


I  $2  A    CITY    OF    THE    DEAD. 

settle  in  Boston,  a  cry  of  need  had  reached  him 
from  the  disease-stricken  city  which  had  touched 
his  heart,  and  brought  him  with  all  the  energy  of 
his  sympathetic  nature,  and  strong,  active  frame, 
at  once  to  the  spot. 

The  call  came  from  a  college  friend,  a  clergy 
man,  who  had  been  for  some  years  in  Memphis. 

"We  are  like  a  city  of  the  dead,"  he  wrote. 
"  All  who  can  go  have  left  us,  and  the  suffering 
among  the  poor  people  who  remain,  is  enough  to 
sicken  the  heart.  There  are,  literally,  too  few  to 
minister  to  the  needs  of  body  or  soul.  Priests 
and  doctors  are  but  mortal,  and  our  physicians 
are  beginning  to  give  out  and  sink  under  the  dis 
ease  from  sheer  exhaustion  and  overwork.  Many 
who  have  the  fever  are  past  curing,  but  soon  there 
will  be  scarcely  any  left  to  tend  those  who  might 
recover." 

And,  at  the  word,  Stephen  Forbes  came.  For 
the  past  week,  the  railway  trains  had  been  crowded 
and  the  roads  blocked  with  fugitives  from  the 
city.  As  he  landed  at  the  station  the  desolation 
was  melancholy  ;  scarcely  a  soul  was  to  be  seen, 
and,  impatient  of  delay,  Stephen  grasped  his  valise, 
and  hurried  along  the  street,  casting  quick,  ob- 


A    CITY    OF    THE    DEAD.  153 

servant  glances  to  right  and  left,  but  meeting 
no  one  from  whom  to  inquire  his  way.  His  fresh, 
vigorous  bearing  however  attracted  the  attention  of 
a  ragged  little  fellow  on  the  steps  of  a  miserable 
house,  and  presently  the  child  came  running  after 
him,  looking  up  in  his  face  confidingly,  as  children 
were  wont  to  do. 

"  Mister,  come  along  o'  me,  will  yer  ?  " 

"Where,  my  boy?"  said  the  doctor,  stopping 
short  and  looking  pitifully  at  the  child's  gaunt 
face. 

"In  yonder,"  with  a  jerk  of  his  head  towards 
the  house  of  which  the  door  stood  open.  "  Mam 
my's  dyin',  and  the  rest  of  us  is  awful  hungry. 
Come  !  " 

The  doctor  needed  no  second  bidding,  but, 
postponing  for  the  present  the  meeting  with  his 
friend,  he  followed  the  informal  summons  that 
had  come  to  him. 

Such  a  miserable  house  as  his  little  ragged 
guide  ushered  him  into  !  A  woman,  in  the  last 
stages  of  fever,  lay  on  the  wretched  bed,  covered 
with  tattered  quilts  and  ragged  bits  of  carpet. 
Round  or  under  the  bed  were  grouped  two  or 
three  neglected  little  children,  and  a  lean,  hungry 


154  A    CITY    Op    THE    DEAD. 

goat.  There  was  no  fire,  no  sign  of  food  or  medi 
cine. 

"  Have  you  had  no  doctor  for  your  mother  ?  " 
asked  Stephen,  with  a  heart-sick  pang  at  the  sight. 

"  Yes  ;  he  come  two  days  ago,  but  maybe  he 
hain't  had  time  since,  or  maybe  he's  sick.  I  done 
what  I  could  for  mammy,  but  now  Annie's  sick, 
and  there's  nothin'  more  to  eat." 

"This  is  hunger,  not  illness,"  said  the  doctor, 
lifting  the  languid  little  form  that  lay  across  the 
foot  of  the  miserable  bed,  and  holding  her  tenderly 
against  his  broad  breast.  "Was  there  no  one  in 
the  house  who  could  help  you,  my  boy  ?  " 

"Miss  Rogers,  done  what  she  could,  but  now 
she's  down  sick,  and  there  don't  nobody  come. 
Please,  sir,  if  you'd  fetch  a  doctor  to  Annie." 

"  I  am  a  doctor  myself,  my  little  fellow,"  said 
Stephen,  and  forthwith,  laying  aside  all  other 
thoughts,  he  devoted  himself,  heart  and  soul,  to 
the  case  before  him,  becoming,  for  the  hour,  phy 
sician,  food-purveyor,  and  cook,  all  in  one.  There 
was  little  to  be  done  for  the  poor  mother,  but 
much  for  the  children,  and  Stephen  did  not  leave 
the  miserable  home  till  he  had  seen  the  place  as 
thoroughly  purified  as  was  possible,  the  children 


A    CITY    OF    THE    DEAD.  155 

washed,  fed,  and  removed  from  the  sick-room  to 
the  care  of  a  friendly  neighbor,  while  a  sweet-faced 
Sister  of  Mercy  was  installed  to  watch  the  dying 
woman,  and  send  for  him  in  case  of  any  change 
for  the  better. 

As  he  left  the  house,  the  sun  was  going  down  in 
a  fiery  golden  mass  of  clouds — a  gorgeous  sunset 
which  seemed  almost  a  mockery  of  the  woe  in  the 
wretched  city.  Stephen  noticed  it  with  a  passing 
thought  of  the  contrast.  "  But  that  is  only  our 
selfish  way  of  looking  at  it,"  he  said  to  himself, 
with  a  half-smile  ;  "  in  reality,  sorrow  would  be 
harder  to  bear  if  Nature,  too,  put  on  mourning." 

He  was  in  a  better  quarter  of  the  city  now, 
where  there  were  rows  of  neat  little  houses,  and 
gardens  in  which  the  unheeded  flowers  were 
blooming  brightly.  As  he  passed  one  of  these, 
a  colored  man,  with  a  telegram  in  his  hand,  ap 
proached  him. 

"  You  look  to  be  a  stranger,  sah,"  he  said. 
"  Mought  you  be  a  doctor  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  friend,"  was  Stephen's  hearty  an 
swer,  "are  you  in  need  of  my  help  ? ' 

"Miss  Sallie  needs  it  bad,"  replied  the  man; 
"our  old  massa  and  missus  is  lying  dead  at  home, 


156  A    CITY    OF    THE    DEAD. 

and  Massa  Harry  —  read  that!"  and  he  put  the 
slip  of  paper  in  his  hand. 
Stephen   read  : 

Father  and  mother  are  lying  dead  in  the  house,  brother  is 
dying.  Send  me  some  help.  No  money.  SALLIE  U. 

"I  was  goin'  to  the  Howards,  sari,"  said  the 
poor  fellow.  "Miss  Sallie,  she's  all  done  gin  out, 
and  she  sent  me  to  fetch  a  nurse.  But  they're  all 
mighty  jubious  about  dis  yere  fever." 

He  despatched  the  negro,  with  a  reassuring 
word,  for  the  undertaker,  and  approached  the  gate 
round  which  a  crowd  of  negroes  were  hanging. 

"Two  dead  in  there,  Massa,"  said  one  excitedly, 
"and  another  crazy  like.  They  want  help  bad." 

"  I  hope  I  may  bring  it,"  said  Stephen,  and, 
scattering  the  crowd  with  a  hint  of  the  danger  in 
lingering  there,  he  entered.  A  pretty  young  girl 
in  mourning  met  him  at  the  threshold. 

"  Oh  !  are  you  a  doctor  ?  "  she  asked  with  some 
thing  of  the  confidence  Stephen's  face  and  bearing 
never  failed  to  inspire. 

"  Yes.  I  met  your  servant  by  chance  outside, 
and  he  told  me  you  were  in  great  trouble.  What 
can  I  do  for  you  ? " 


A    CITY    OF    THE    DEAD.  157 

The  question  was  answered  when  he  reached 
the  room  to  which  she  led  the  way.  One  corpse 
lay  on  the  bed,  another  on  the  sofa,  while,  in  the 
next  room,  a  tall,  powerful  young  man,  in  the 
delirious  stages  of  the  fever,  was  rocking  himself 
back  and  forth,  and  struggling  with  the  rough 
negro  who  strove  to  hold  him  in  bed. 

"Poor  child,"  said  Stephen,  "what  a  scene  for 
you  !  Had  you  no  one  to  call  on  ?  " 

"  No  one  but  our  old  Caesar,"  she  answered 
tearfully,  "and  to-day  I  felt  that  I  must  send  him 
for  a  doctor  and  the  undertaker,  for  I  did  not  dare 
leave  my  poor  brother  to  go  myself.  But  there 
are  so  many  to  go  to,  and  all  my  money  is  gone. 
I  do  not  know  where  I  could  have  got  help  if  you 
had  not  come." 

A  few  minutes  were  enough  to  calm  the  excited 
patient,  for  Stephen's  strong  grasp  seemed  to 
have  a  wonderfully  quieting  influence  as  well ; 
the  rough  negro  was  despatched  for  needful 
remedies,  and  Stephen  stayed  with  the  friendless 
young  girl  till  all  was  quiet,  the  young  man 
sunk  into  a  sort  of  torpor,  and  the  servant  re 
turned  with  a  nurse  from  the  Relief  Association. 
Then,  giving  her  money  for  her  present  needs, 


158  A    CITY    OF    THE    DEAD. 

and  promising  to  see  that  the  bodies  of  her 
parents  were  tenderly  removed,  he  sent  her  with 
fatherly  kindness  from  the  room,  attended  himself 
to  the  last  sad  offices,  and  finally  went  on  his 
interrupted  way. 

He  had  nearly  forgotten  now  that  he  was  a 
stranger  in  the  place,  but,  as  he  stepped  into  the 
darkening  street,  he  remembered  that  he  did  not 
yet  know  his  way  to  the  Rectory.  Suddenly  his 
eye  fell  on  a  slight,  spare  form  in  the  dress  of  a 
clergyman,  coming  out  of  another  fever-stricken 
dwelling.  He  hurried  after  him  with  long  strides, 
soon  overtaking  him. 

"  So  I've  fallen  in  with  you  in  person,  Louis!" 

"  What  !  Stephen,  you  already  ?  But  I  knew 
you  would  come  !  "  There  was  a  warm  and  af 
fectionate  greeting  between  the  two  so  oddly 
contrasted  in  appearance,  the  clergyman's  frail, 
delicate  hand  seeming  to  disappear  altogether  in 
the  broad  palm  of  the  doctor  who  towered  above 
him  by  head  and  shoulders. 

"  I've  been  here  six  hours  already,"  said  Stephen, 
looking  at  his  watch,  "  and  know  something  of  the 
situation.  But  tell  me  all  you  can  of  the  most 
needy.  I  am  not  a  novice  in  fever  cases." 


A    CITY    OF    THE    DEAD.  159 

He  listened  attentively  to  the  clergyman's  story 
of  suffering,  jotting  down  in  his  note-book,  as 
they  went  along,  memoranda  of  the  most  urgent 
cases. 

"My  night's  work,"  he  said,  smiling;  "it  is  a 
satisfaction  to  have  it  already  cut  out.  But  first 
I  must  see  how  you  are  lodged,  Louis ;  you  do  not 
waste  much  time  or  thought  on  yourself,  I  see  by 
your  face." 

They  turned  into  the  gate  of  the  brick  Rectory, 
standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  cathedral  where  Louis 
Sinclair  and  several  brother  priests  lived  and  held 
daily  services  in  the  church,  spending  every  avail 
able  moment  in  attendance  on  the  sick  and  dying. 
Sumptuous  fare  and  lodging  were,  assuredly,  no 
part  of  their  thoughts  ;  the  Rectory  life  was  al 
most  ascetic  in  its  frugality,  and,  since  the  break 
ing  out  of  the  epidemic,  none  of  the  hours  devoted 
to  rest  and  refreshment  had  been  regularly  ob 
served.  The  doctor  noted  everything  in  the  rather 
cheerless  abode  with  his  keen,  quick  eyes,  ending 
with  a  survey  of  the  slight  form  before  him,  and 
inwardly  rejoiced  at  his  coming,  if  only  for  the 
sake  of  those  who  would  be  under  the  same  roof 
with  him. 


I6O  A    CITY    OF    THE    DEAD. 

There  had  been  the  warmest  friendship  between 
these  two  men  all  through  their  college  days,  nor, 
in  their  after  life,  widely  as  their  paths  had  di 
verged,  had  they  fallen  out  of  each  other's  memory 
or  affection.  Stephen  Forbes'  work  was  essen 
tially  in  the  world,  Louis  Sinclair's,  apart  from  it  ; 
but  in  both  there  was  the  same  true-hearted  spirit 
of  self-sacrifice  and  a  generous  comprehension  of 
each  other's  inner  nature  which  no  outside  differ 
ences  had  power  to  shake. 

A  tower  of  strength  Stephen  might  well  have 
been  called  in  those  sad  weeks.  Busy  days  suc 
ceeded  each  other,  spent  in  going  from  bedside  to 
bedside,  often  beginning  with  an  early  round,  pro 
vision  basket  on  his  arm,  among  those  of  his  poor 
patients  who  needed  food  rather  than  medicine  — 
for  whatever  was  to  be  done  must  be  done  with  one's 
own  hands  ;  broken  nights  followed,  during  which 
the  hard  bed  at  the  Rectory  was  often  untouched, 
yet  through  it  all  the  doctor  was  always  the  same, 
calm,  cheerful,  energetic,  sunny,  animating  nurses 
and  brother  physicians  with  his  buoyant  spirits 
and  inevhaustible  vitality,  keeping  a  watchful 
eye,  meantime,  on  the  temporal  needs  of  his  spirit 
ual  friends,  and  insisting,  with  his  half-laughing 


A    CITY    OF    THE    DEAD.  l6l 

boyish  arbitrariness,  on  their  keeping  regular  hours 
and  living  on  more  generous  fare. 

"Doctors  of  the  soul  have  need  of  strong 
bodies,"  he  said.  "  It  is  quite  a  mistake  to  im 
agine  the  contrary." 

"  You  should  have  been  one  of  us,  Dr.  Forbes," 
said  one  of  the  clergymen. 

"Well,  our  work  is  not  so  far  apart,  I  trust, 
though  yours  is  the  harder,  because  the  more  ac 
tive  a  life  is,  the  more  it  becomes  self-supporting. 
But  praying  and  working  go  together,  in  some 
measure,  with  us  both,  I  believe." 

"One  of  our  most  untiring  doctors  is  a  woman," 
said  Mr.  Sinclair. 

"  I  am  not  surprised  at  that.  When  I  remem 
ber  the  women  I  have  seen  in  the  medical  schools 
abroad,  I  can  readily  believe  anything  of  their 
courage  and  endurance.  I  have  not  met  this  one 
of  whom  you  speak  as  yet,  but  for  devotion  and  for 
titude  one  need  not  look  beyond  the  Sisters  of 
Mercy.  What  noble,  unselfish,  Christ-like  lives  !  " 

On  the  evening  of  that  day,  Dr.  Stephen  was 
hastening  to  the  last  of  a  long  list  of  patients. 
It  was  rainy  and  damp,  and  the  darkening  streets 
were  lighted  by  the  piles  of  burning  bedding 


l62  A    CITY    OF    THE    DEAD. 

before  the  stricken  houses.  Carts  were  driven  by, 
loaded  with  rough  wooden  boxes,  eight  or  nine 
sometimes  in  a  cart.  A  nurse  hurrying  along  in 
front  of  Stephen,  stopped  the  driver  of  one  of 
these  to  ask  her  way  to  a  certain  house. 

"  But  I've  got  the  man  here  in  his  coffin,"  said 
the  driver,  with  a  jerk  of  his  whip  over  his 
shoulder  towards  the  boxes. 

"  All  but  the  tenderest  hearts  grow  callous  in 
the  midst  of  such  dreadful  scenes,"  thought  the 
doctor,  with  a  sigh.  His  own  was  very  heavy  as 
he  entered  the  door  of  the  house  of  which  he  was 
in  search.  It  was  a  new  patient,  and  he  was 
very  late  in  reaching  her.  As  he  looked  in  at  the 
open  bedroom  door,  he  found  he  had  been  fore 
stalled.  A  little  woman,  dressed,  not  in  the  Sis 
ter's  robe  and  black  veil  which  had  grown  so  famil 
iar  to  his  eyes,  but  in  ordinary  street  attire,  was 
standing  by  the  bedside  of  the  sick  person.  She 
looked  up  as  he  entered,  with  a  quick  glance  of 
surprise.  There  was  a  mutual  start  of  recognition  : 

"  Dr.  Martyn  !  " 

"Dr.  Forbes!" 

They  shook  hands  cordially,  but  it  was  no  time 
for  personal  inquiries. 


A    CITY    OF    THE    DEAD.  163 

"I  have  been  detained,"  said  Stephen.  "It  is 
well  the  case  fell  into  your  hands." 

The  little  woman  shook  her  head  sadly,  mur 
mured  a  few  words  in  a  low  tone,  motioning  him 
to  step  nearer  the  bed  ;  then,  as  he  bent  over  the 
patient,  she  gave  a  few  clear,  concise  directions  to 
the  nurse  in  charge,  and  with  a  last  glance  at 
the  unconscious  head  on  the  pillow,  followed  the 
doctor  from  the  house. 

"No,  there  is  no  hope,  I  fear,"  she  said,  as  they 
stepped  out  into  the  heavy  air,  which  seemed 
refreshing  after  the  fever-tainted  atmosphere, 
"though  I  have  learned  that  there  is  no  trusting 
to  signs  in  these  fever  cases.  I  think  sometimes 
a  patient  is  doing  well,  and  before  I  can  see  him 
again  he  is  dead.  At  another  time  I  think  there 
is  cause  for  great  alarm,  and  the  patient  recovers." 

"  It  can  only  be  feeling  one's  way,"  said  Ste 
phen,  "  but  how  much  of  our  work  is  that  !  You 
have  been  here,  then,  for  some  time  ?  " 

"  All  through  the  fever.  Did  you  not  know 
that  Memphis  was  my  home  ?  I  came  here  at 
once  after  leaving  Vienna,  and  have  practised  here 
ever  since." 

"  And   you    meet    with    recognition,    I    trust  ? " 


164  A    CITY    OF    THE    DEAD. 

Stephen  asked,  with  interest.  "  You  deserve  it 
after  your  brave  struggle  abroad." 

"  It  comes  slowly,"  she  answered,  with  a  quiet 
smile.  "We  do  move  slowly  in  our  Southern 
cities,  you  know.  But  my  lot  is  cast  here,  and, 
such  as  it  is,  poor  Memphis  shall  have  the  best  I 
can  give  her." 

"What  she  most  needs,"  said  Stephen,  ener 
getically,  "  is  enterprise,  and  thorough  sub-soil 
drainage.  What  we  are  doing  now  is  only  a  sop 
to  Cerberus.  I  have  no  faith  in  any  remedy  till 
the  root  of  the  matter  is  reached  ;  we  are  only 
smothering  it  till  then.  Enterprise,  I  suppose, 
we  should  hardly  look  for  after  such  a  terrible 
visitation,  unless  there  is  a  powerful  lift  from  out 
side  ;  but  that,  please  God,  there  shall  be  when  I 
have  seen  this  struggle  through." 

"  You  mean  to  stay  through  it,  then  ? "  said  Dr. 
Martyn,  her  face  brightening. 

"I  couldn't  leave,"  said  Stephen  simply. 

They  walked  on  together,  the  doctor's  stalwart 
figure  towering  above  the  little  woman  at  his  side, 
on  whom  he  looked  down  with  a  friendly  smile  in 
the  dark  eyes  which  gave  so  much  light  and  sweet 
ness  to  his  face.  Clara  Martyn  was  small,  but 


A    CITY    OF    THE    DEAD.  165 

robust  in  frame,  with  quick,  noiseless  movements, 
a  fresh  color  in  her  cheeks,  a  decided  mouth,  and 
a  peculiar  resolution  in  the  low,  clear  tones,  as 
well  as  in  the  motions  of  her  firm,  small  hands- 
They  parted  at  the  gate  of  her  home  with  a  quiet, 
friendly  pressure  of  the  hand,  that  told  of  hearty 
sympathy  and  fellow-feeling ;  and  after  this  meet 
ing  the  work  for  each  became  lighter,  because  it 
was  shared. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

THE    NOBLE    ARMY    OF    MARTYRS. 

A  noble  army,  men  and  boys, 

The  matron  and  the  maid, 
Around  the  Saviour's  throne  rejoice, 

In  robes  of  light  arrayed  : 
They  Climbed  the  steep  ascent  of  heaven 

Through  peril,  toil  and  pain  : 
O  God !  to  us  may  grace  be  given 

To  follow  in  their  train  ! 

BISHOP  HEBEK. 

SO  the  sultry  September  days  wore  on,  and  all 
in  the  fever-stricken  city  were  looking  with 
longing  for  the  early  frosts.     But  that  was  only  a 
ray  of  hope,  for  each  day  the  list  of  deaths  was 
as  long  as  ever. 

Coming  home  one  Sunday  evening,  more  slowly 
than  usual, — the  only  sign  of  weariness  he  ever 
showed, — but  not  too  tired  or  pre-occupied  to  greet 
every  child  or  Sister  he  met  with  a  kindly  word  or 
smile,  Stephen  only  stopped  to  throw  off  his 
outside  coat,  and  followed  the  handful  of  worship 
pers  into  the  Cathedral,  where  the  vesper  service 

1 66 


THE    NOBLE    ARMY    OF    MARTYRS.  l6/ 

was  just  beginning.  •  It  had  been  a  hard,  sad  day, 
and  there  was  an  unwonted  weight  pressing  on 
his  heart ;  but  as  the  doctor  knelt  and  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands,  something  in  the  quiet  of 
the  church  atmosphere  stole  over  his  troubled 
spirit  with  holy  calm  and  sweetness.  In  the  dim 
light  his  tall  figure  was  scarcely  visible  as  he  knelt, 
but  Louis  Sinclair  heard  the  deep,  earnest  tones 
in  response,  and  felt  the  nearer  to  his  friend. 
His  own  voice  had  faltered  as  he  began,  for  he 
felt  himself  strangely  weak  and  shaken  that  day, 
but  the  presence  of  the  strong,  tender,  human 
heart  seemed  to  bring  the  Divine  love  the  nearer. 
In  the  light  of  that  nearness  nothing  could  look 
dark  or  strange,  even  though  the  path  opening 
before  him  might  be  an  untrodden  one. 


;  Through  love  to  light !     Oh,  wonderful  the  way 
That  leads  from  darkness  to  the  perfect  day ! 


;  Through  love  to  light !     Through  light,  oh  God,  to  Thee, 
Who  art  the  Love  ot  Love,  the  Eternal  Light  of  Light.' 


"  The  peace  of  God  which  passeth  all  understand 
ing  " — As  the  last  words  died  away,  Stephen  stood 
waiting  for  his  friend  till  he  came  from  the  vestry, 


1 68      THE  NOBLE  ARMY  OF  MARTYRS. 

and  walked  with  him  the  few  steps  to  the  house, 
his  arm  thrown  lightly  round  his  shoulders. 

"  I  shall  not  go  out  again  for  an  hour,"  said 
Sinclair.  "  Call  me  when  you  go." 

"  I  am  not  going  again  to-night,"  said  the  doc 
tor  quietly.  "  Come  with  me,  dear  fellow." 

"  Then  you  think  I  have  the  fever  ?  "  said  Louis, 
with  a  quick  glance  at  his  friend's  face. 

"I  fear  it,"  Stephen  replied,  "but  I  hope  al 
ways." 

There  was  little  hope,  however,  as  Sinclair 
himself  knew.  The  strength  of  his  delicate  frame 
had  been  long  since  exhausted,  and  nothing  but 
the  sense  of  need,  with  his  own  heroic  resolution, 
had  supported  him  so  long.  It  was  Stephen's 
first  heavy  grief  since  the  death  of  his  mother  in 
his  boyhood.  He  clung  with  all  the  warmth  of  a 
tender  heart  that  has  few  near  ties  to  his  friend 
ships,  which  neither  time  nor  distance  weakened, 
and,  with  the  physician's  strong  yearning  to  save, 
he  felt  that  he  could  not  lose  this  friend. 

"Keep  up  a  good  heart,  dear  boy,"  he  whis 
pered,  for  Sinclair  was  conscious  through  it  all. 
"That,  of  itself,  will  do  much." 

Much,   but    not    everything,   as    Sinclair   knew. 


THE    NOBLE    ARMY    OF    MARTYRS.  169 

"There  is  work  waiting  for  me,  Steve,"  he  mur 
mured.  "  Mine  here,  I  know,  is  done." 

Stephen  stood  looking  at  him  sadly.  Should  he 
be  so  ready  to  lay  down  his  own  life  ?  Should  he 
feel  so  surely  that  there  was  work  for  him  to  do 
elsewhere  ?  He  bent  over  the  pillow  and  lifted 
the  sufferer  into  an  easier  position,  with  the  strong 
man's  touch  that  was,  at  the  same  time,  as  tender 
as  a  woman's.  Just  at  the  moment  a  summons 
came  for  him,  brought  by  a  messenger  from  Dr. 
Martyn. 

"I  cannot  come  to-night,"  said  the  doctor  res 
olutely.  "  That  case  is  doing  passably  well,  and 
I  am  needed  here." 

But  the  sick  man's  quick  ear  had  caught  the 
low  murmur  at  the  door. 

"Go,  Stephen,"  he  said  faintly,  "there  maybe 
hope  there,  while  here,  you  know  —  besides,  you 
leave  me  in  good  hands  — "  And  he  looked  affec 
tionately  at  the  brother  priest  who  stood  by  his 
bed. 

The  doctor  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  stooped 
over  the  bed,  and  kissed  his  friend's  forehead  with 
a  childlike  fervor  very  touching  in  the  great  strong 
man. 


I/O      THE  NOBLE  ARMY  OF  MARTYRS. 

"God  bless  you,  dear  old  boy!"  he  said  softly> 
and  followed  the  messenger  without  another  word. 

The  house  was  one  in  which  a  poor  Swedish 
girl  had  been  lying  ill  for  a  week,  alone  and  friend 
less,  scarcely  able  to  speak  the  most  broken  Eng 
lish,  but  so  touchingly  grateful,  in  her  conscious 
moments,  for  their  care  that  both  doctors  had 
labored  with  all  their  hearts  to  save  her.  That 
day  it  had  seemed  as  if  she  might  mend,  but  Dr. 
Martyn  was  still  sitting  by  the  bedside,  anxiously 
watching  for  Stephen's  coming. 

He  entered  in  silence,  for  his  heart  was  too  full 
for  words,  and  bent  over  the  sick  girl's  pillow. 

"  It  is  the  crisis,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of 
the  sharpness  of  his  grief  in  the  tone.  "Nothing 
is  needed  here  but  careful  watching,  and  knowl 
edge  to  seize  the  right  moment." 

"That  is  why  I  sent  for  you,"  said  Dr.  Martyn 
gently  ;  "  I  could  not  be  sure  of  myself  any  longer." 

Something  in  her  voice  dispelled  the  unwonted 
selfishness  of  private  sorrow  in  Stephen's  heart, 
and  he  turned  quickly  to  look  at  his  fellow-worker. 

"  Why,  courage,  Doctor ! "  he  said  cheerily,  grasp 
ing  her  hand.  "  You  are  not  giving  out,  surely  ?  " 

But  the  touch  of  the  burning  hand  brought  a 


THE    NOBLE    ARMY    OF    MARTYRS.  I /I 

change  into  his  face.  "  It  is  not  a  moment  too 
soon,"  he  said  gravely.  "I  will  see  you  home  at 
once." 

"Do  you  think  I  do  not  know  enough  to  doctor 
myself  in  the  first  stages?"  she  answered,  with  a 
brave  smile  ;  "and  I  shall  not  go  home.  Mrs. 
Seavey  offers  me  a  room  here — you  know  hers  is 
one  of  the  few  families  we  have  pulled  through  — 
and  she  will  be  a  great  help.  So  you  can  stay 
with  poor  Louisa,  without  having  your  mind  torn 
in  two  directions  at  once." 

It  would  have  been  too  much  to  say  that  his 
mind  was  not  torn  with  anguish  for  his  friend,  and 
anxiety  for  his  fellow-worker ;  but  no  one  who  had 
seen  him  at  Louisa's  bedside  would  have  suspected 
it. 

Morning  came  and  found  the  Swedish  girl  out 
of  danger;  Louis,  as  his  friend  thought  with  a 
swelling  heart,  was  past  all  danger,  too,  and  it 
only  remained  to  devote  all  his  energies  to  the 
brave  little  woman  who  had  worked  so  nobly  for 
others.  Clara  Martyn  had  a  strong  will,  and  the 
firm  conviction  that  there  was  still  work  for  her  to 
do  in  the  world,  and  that  did  wonders. 

"I  shall  get  well  now,"  she  said  brightly,  after 


1/2  THE    NOBLE    ARMY    OF    MARTYRS. 

two  painful  weeks  of  suspense  were  over.  "  I  have 
felt  all  along  that  I  should  recover.  I  owe  a  great 
deal  to  you,  however." 

"And  to  your  own  resolution.  I  mean,  how 
ever,  that  you  should  owe  much  more  to  me,  if 
you  will  put  your  case  in  my  hands." 

"How  so?"  said  Clara,  flushing  slightly. 

"  I  mean  to  pronounce  your  expatriation,"  replied 
Stephen,  trying  to  speak  playfully,  though  he 
kept  his  eyes  on  her  face.  "  I  mean  to  send  you 
North." 

Dr.  Martyn  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  with  an 
impulse,  which,  in  most  women,  would  have  ended 
in  a  burst  of  tears. 

"You  know,  of  course,  that  you  cannot  stay 
here  with  any  idea  of  working  at  present?"  said 
Stephen  gently. 

"It  is  hard,"  said  Clara,  in  a  faint  voice. 

"Yes,  hard,  I  know  —  doubly  hard  that  you  who 
have  laid  aside  so  bravely  all  thoughts  which  to 
most  women  constitute  the  joy  of  life,  and  thrown 
yourself  so  heartily  into  your  profession  — 

"  I  have  done  no  more  than  hundreds  of  other 
physicians,"  said  Dr.  Martyn,  in  a  brusque  tone, 
"no  more  than  you,  yourself." 


THE  NOBLE  ARMY  OF  MARTYRS.       1 73 

"  Perhaps  not  in  the  abstract,  yet  sacrifice  of 
domestic  happiness  seems  more  magnanimous  in  a 
woman.  For  myself,  I  can  honestly  say  that  I 
have  never  yet  been  able  to  imagine  the  being 
who  could  offer  me  greater  attractions  than  my 
profession  " 

"It  is  not  impossible  to  combine  marriage  with 
a  professional  life,  is  it?"  Clara  rejoined,  dryly. 
"Not  impossible,  that  is,  for  a  man  — " 

"Oh!  surely  not,"  said  Stephen,  with  a  half- 
laugh,  and  boyish  blush.  "But  I  —  " 

"Have  only  never  met  your  'fair  divided  excel 
lence.'  And  yet  I  have  always  thought  you  the 
very  type  of  the  'half  of  a  blessed  man."1 

"Half  of  a  blessed  man?"  echoed  the  doctor 
with  a  puzzled  air; — "oh!"  with  a  frank  laugh, 
"  I  am  sadly  rusty  in  my  Shakespeare,  am  I  not  ? 
Well,  possibly  I  may  live  to  be  '  finished  by  such 
a  she,'  but  I  can  wait  the  time.  How  in  the 
world  did  we  get  to  my  affairs,  though?  I  was 
talking  of  yours." 

"Must  I  go  ?"  asked  Clara,  in  an  altered  voice. 

"  My  friend,  yes ;  but  not,  I  hope  and  believe, 
to  give  up  working.  Perhaps  you  may  even  work 
to  better  advantage  elsewhere,  though  I  know 


1/4          THE  NOBLE  ARMY  OF  MARTYRS. 

well  how  hard  it  is  for  you  to  go.  Nothing  could 
excite  readier  sympathy  at  the  North  than  the 
words  of  some  one  who  had  been  on  the  spot. 
May  I  write  to  Boston  that  you  will  come  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  as  you  think  best,"  she  answered, 
without  looking  up.  "  Memphis  is  only  dear  to 
me  now  on  account  of  what  she  has  suffered.  I 
would  gladly  see  my  poor  people  through  their 
trouble  —  but  I  must  not  think  of  that,  and  you 
will  be  here.  Tell  me  what  I  can  do  in  your  city." 

"  One  of  my  bravest  fellow-workers  brings  you 
this  letter,"  Stephen  wrote  to  his  father.  "  I  am 
sure  there  is  work  for  her  to  do  in  Boston.  You 
share  my  views  about  the  need  of  thoroughly  qual 
ified  women  doctors  —  she  is  one  of  those.  If  her 
services  could  be  secured  as  resident  physician  in 
the  hospital  for  poor  women  which  you  have  so 
much  at  heart,  its  success  would  be  assured.  We 
were  fellow-students  abroad,  and  are  wholly  in 
sympathy. 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  story  of  her  heroism,  for,  though 
you  may  think  that  quality  will  be  wasted  in  your 
hospital,  it  illustrates,  too,  her  womanliness,  which 
will  have  full  play  there.  It  was  in  the  darkest 


THE    NOBLE    ARMY    OF    MARTYRS.  1/5 

time  of  the  panic,  when  even  strong  men  seemed 
turned  to  cowards,  and  thought  of  little  except  of 
saving  their  own  lives — cowardice  does  make 
such  brutes  of  us  sometimes  !  Outside  the  city 
an  orphan  asylum  had  been  established  in  charge 
of  the  Sisters  of  Mercy,  and  one  day  Dr.  Martyn 
was  going  out  to  it,  with  a  score  of  poor  little 
waifs,  left  fatherless  and  motherless  by  the  fever. 
Half-way  out  on  the  forlorn  country  road,  they 
encountered  a  mob  of  desperate-looking  men, 
whose  homes  were  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Asylum,  and  who  were  frantic  enough  in  their 
fright  to  believe  that  they  might  escape  the  pes 
tilence  if  the  Asylum  could  be  abolished.  At 
least,  they  declared  no  more  orphans  should  be 
brought  there.  So  they  surrounded  the  wagons, 
seizing  the  heads  of  the  mules,  brandishing  cud 
gels,  firing  stones,  and  swearing  that  the  children 
should  not  be  carried  a  step  farther.  The  wagon 
ers  were  thoroughly  frightened  and  prepared  to 
fly,  leaving  the  children  to  the  tender  mercies  of 
the  mob.  But  Dr.  Martyn,  the  only  woman  pres 
ent  except  the  Sister  who  told  me  the  story,  sprang 
upon  one  of  the  seats,  and  addressed  the  rough 
men  in  clear,  brave  tones,  low,  but  steady. 


THE    NOBLE    ARMY    OF    MARTYRS. 


"'Men/  she  said,  'have  you  children  of  your 
own  who  may  come  in  their  turn  to  need  the  pro 
tection  of  strangers,  and  will  you  deny  to  these 
poor  little  ones  the  shelter  of  such  a  home  as  is 
left  to  them  ?  I  will  not  think  it  of  you.  Some 
of  you,  at  least,  will  help  me  !  '  * 

"  The  men  paused,  abashed  by  her  courage,  and 
ashamed  of  their  brutality.  Some  slunk  away, 
and  the  others  formed  themselves  into  an  escort 
for  the  defenceless  children,  who  reached  the 
Asylum  in  safety. 

"  I  have  no  more  time  to  write,  for  head  and 
heart  are  pledged  to  these  poor  suffering  souls. 
Do  not  expect  to  see  me  till  it  is  all  over,  dear 
father,  but  have  no  anxiety  for  me.  I  wish  that 
others  were  as  well  able  to  bear  the  strain  as  I." 


*  True,  not  of  a  doctor,  but  of  a  Sister  of  Mercy,  who  died  at  her  post  in  Mem 
phis.  September,  1878. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

THE    LITTLE    RIFT. 

Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  -all. 

TENNYSON. 

THERE  was  no  concealment  about  Gladys 
Amory,  reserved  as  her  nature  might  be. 
It  would  have  been  impossible  for  her  to  hide  her 
new  knowledge  from  her  father.  Silence  would 
only  have  widened  the  breach  between  them, 
which,  she  bitterly  felt,  the  shock  of  disappoint 
ment  had  opened. 

"  I  met  Mr.  Lindesay  in  New  York,"  she  said 
quietly,  the  first  time  she  saw  her  father  after  her 
return.  "  He  told  me  what  I  had  not  known  be 
fore,  that  he  had  written  to  us  both  on  leaving 
Boston." 

Mr.  Lyman  started  and  changed  color.  In 
spite  of  her  own  sense  of  injustice,  Gladys  was 
touched  to  the  heart  by  the  evident  confusion  in 
his  usually  calm,  self-possessed  manner. 

"I— I  have  the  letter  still,"  he  faltered,  "but, 
177 


1/  THE    LITTLE    RIFT. 

Gladys,  believe  me,  I  thought  I  was  acting  for 
your  best  happiness  in  not  giving  it  to  you.  Do 
you  not  remember  when  Charles  Willoughby  — 

"Dear  papa,"  said  his  daughter,  bending  as  she 
stood  beside  him,  to  kiss  his  forehead,  "I  did  not 
ask  the  question  to  upbraid  you.  What  you  did 
was  done  for  what  you  thought  my  happiness,  no 
doubt.  But  oh  !  there  is  such  danger  in  being 
too  ready  to  assume  the  responsibility  of  a  happi 
ness  of  which  we  cannot  judge.  But  by-gones  are 
by-gones.  I  only  speak  of  it  because  I  cannot 
bear  the  separation  that  silence  seems  to  make 
between  us.  Give  me  the  letter  and  we  will 
never  mention  it  again." 

He  put  it  silently  into  her  hand,  feeling,  even 
more  bitterly  than  she,  that  the  separation  of 
which  she  spoke  could  not  be  wholly  averted  even 
by  the  most  forgiving  affection.  Gladys  did  not 
open  it  till  she  was  alone. 

"  I  do  not  speak  of  the  differences  between  us," 
Raymond  had  written.  "  With  some  men  they 
might  act  as  a  barrier ;  with  some  women,  I  my 
self,  should  feel  them  so.  With  you  I  do  not,  for 
I  am  sure  you  know  that  what  I  love  in  you  is 
none  of  your  outside  advantages.  I  believe  you 


THE    LITTLE    RIFT. 


feel  with  me,  that  love  looks  beyond  all  externals, 
and  that,  in  giving  you  my  heart,  I  give  something 
that  outweighs  them  all.  I  need  not  tell  you, 
surely,  that  my  whole  heart  is  yours. 

"  I  have  explained  all  to  your  father.  I  do  not 
ask  for  everything  now  —  I  am  not  so  bold  as  that. 
Often,  indeed,  I  am  very  faint-hearted.  I  ask 
only  for  the  right  to  love  you,  and  the  hope  that 
by  and  by  you  may  find  that  you  can  love  me.  Is 
that  too  much  to  ask  ?  " 

Yes,  by-gones  were  by-gones,  yet,  as  she  read, 
Gladys  could  not  keep  back  the  tears  from  her 
eyes,  could  not  altogether  restrain  the  wonder 
that  a  human  hand  should  have  had  the  power  to 
change  her  fate  so  cruelly.  To  that  extenuating 
plea  of  her  father's  in  regard  to  Charles  Willough- 
by,  she  had  been  unable  to  say  a  word.  Perhaps 
she  knew  no  more  than  he  when  or  how  had  come 
the  change  in  her  from  childhood  to  womanhood  ; 
but  that  feeling  towards  Raymond  Lindesay,  begin 
ning  in  the  girlish  longing  to  draw  him  out  of  his 
unhappiness,  and  first  revealed  to  her  own  shrink 
ing  consciousness  by  her  aunt's  words,  had  been 
the  awakening. 

But  how  had  come  the  change  which  had  made 


ISO  THE    LITTLE    RIFT. 

her  Morgan  Amory's  wife  after  that  winter  of 
secret  pain  and  disillusion  ?  She  had  not  accepted 
him  from  pique ;  she  had  not  pretended  to  herself 
that  he  realized  in  her  eyes  the  ideal  of  which  her 
girlish  fancy  had  dreamed.  She  had  simply  come 
to  believe,  after  the  galling  pangs  of  self -reproach 
ful  mortification  were  past,  that  such  an  ideal  love 
as  hers  had  never  existed,  perhaps  never  could 
exist,  except  in  the  romantic  brain  of  an  inexpe 
rienced  girl.  She  liked  Mr.  Amory  extremely ; 
he  pleased  her  artistic  sense,  and  there  was  no 
flesh-and-blood  rival  for  him  to  displace.  If  she 
could  be  all  in  all  to  him,  as  he  told  her,  if  she 
could  gratify,  in  marrying  him,  the  dearest  wish 
of  her  father's  heart,  why  should  she  hesitate  ? 
With  more  experience  of  the  world,  more  knowl 
edge  of  her  own  heart,  she  might  have  hesitated, 
since  to  give  less  than  all  one  is  capable  of,  is 
treason  to  the  very  idea  of  love ;  but  she  was  very 
young,  and  her  girlish  pride  had  been  sorely 
wounded. 

And  now  did  the  revelation  which  had  come  to 
her  so  unexpectedly  make  her  feel  that  she  had 
committed  a  fatal  mistake  ?  If  it  did,  she  did  not 
show  it  in  the  usual  way.  At  the  same  moment 


THE    LITTLE    RIFT.  l8l 

with  the  thrill  of  joy  that  she  had  not  been  de 
ceived  in  Raymond,  came  also  a  glow  of  loyalty 
towards  her  husband,  an  inner  resolve  that  she 
would  be  more  than  ever  faithful  to  the  duty 
which  she  had  pledged  herself  to  fulfil.  It  was 
this  that  had  occupied  her  mind,  far  more  than 
vain  regrets,  as  she  burned  the  letter,  and  closed 
forever  that  episode  of  her  youth. 

Several  years  had  passed  since  then,  and  how 
had  the  pledge  been  redeemed  ?  Just  where  is 
the  line  where  disappointment  begins  to  be  ac 
knowledged  and  recognized  ?  Perhaps  it  never  is 
so,  consciously ;  perhaps  it  is  only  felt  in  its  silent 
results,  the  slow  damping  down  of  hope,  the  cessa 
tion  of  expectation,  the  gradual  surrender  of  en 
deavor. 

There  was  nothing  tangible  in  Morgan  Amory 
to  disappoint.  He  was  always  the  same  polished, 
cultured  gentleman,  usually  spoken  of  as  a  model 
of  domestic  virtues,  and  "  so  proud  of  his  beauti 
ful  wife  !  "  So  he  was,  fond  and  proud  of  her  as  of 
all  that  belonged  to  him,  his  pictures,  his  library, 
his  horses,  his  greenhouses.  While  the  newness 
of  possession  lasted,  there  was  somewhat  more 
than  this  ;  but  nothing  was  long  new  to  Mr.  Amory 


l82  THE    LITTLE    RIFT. 

All  became  a  matter  of  course  so  very  soon,  like 
his  daily  lounge  at  the  club,  his  afternoon  drive, 
their  appearance  together  in  society  during  the 
season,  his  punctilious  presence  at  the  morning 
service  on  Sundays  :  all  this  was  taken  for  granted 
—  could  anything  more  be  asked  ? 

It  was  somewhat  like  the  way  in  which  he  had 
met  his  wife,  when,  after  reading  Raymond  Linde- 
say's  letter,  she  had  gone  up  to  him,  clasped  her 
hands  round  his  arm  in  her  mute  pledge  of  devo 
tion,  and  looked  up  at  him  earnestly,  with  half- 
tearful  eyes. 

"  Has  anything  happened  ? "  Morgan  Amory 
asked  in  concern. 

"  Nothing  to  tell,  I  believe,"  she  answered, 
"  but  I  felt  —  I  thought  —  " 

"  You  felt  nervous  and  unlike  yourself  ?  Yes, 
of  course,  very  naturally  !  Come  and  drive  with 
me,  and  the  fresh  air  will  do  you  good.  Don't 
think  of  anything  agitating,  my  dear  Gladys  ;  it  is 
so  very  unnecessary." 

That  charge  was  something  which  Mrs.  Amory 
never  seemed  to  need  from  her  husband  now.  To 
all  casual  beholders  she  was  as  unruffled,  almost  as 
indifferent  as  he ;  and  even  her  father  secretly 


THE    LITTLE    RIFT.  183 

thought  that  Gladys  was  become  more  of  the  ordi 
nary  society  woman  than  he  had  imagined  possible 
in  her  girlhood. 

There  were  few,  indeed,  who  saw  her  in  any 
other  light  ;  of  these  were  the  old  doctor,  towards 
whom  she  still  kept  the  half-playful,  affectionate 
manner  of  her  girlish  days  ;  her  class  of  Sunday 
school  pupils,  young  girls  who  adored  her  with  the 
passionate  devotion  of  lovers,  and  who  poured  out 
their  hearts  to  her,  sure  of  being  met  and  under 
stood  ;  a  little  artist  friend,  Isabel  Lindesay,  whose 
talent  she  fostered  in  every  way  that  money, 
personal  help  and  suggestion  and  appreciative 
criticism  could  ;  and  her  children,  whom  she  idol 
ized  with  a  passionate  love  rare  even  in  mothers. 

There  were  two,  as  beautiful  as  cherubs  ;  little 
Tom,  three  years  old,  and  the  baby,  Amy. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

FATHER    AND    SON. 

A  heart  at  leisure  from  itself 
To  soothe  and  sympathize. 

ANNA  L.  WARING. 

I  LOOK  upon  it  as  a  most  providential  illness, 
Stephen;  not  interesting  —  lumbago  has  not 
even  an  interesting  sound  —  but  I  cheerfully  sub 
mit  to  occasional  twinges  and  a  rickety  gait,  for 
the  sake  of  preserving  you  from  embarking  your 
fortunes  for  life  in  the  Mississippi  basin." 

So  spoke  the  old  doctor,  as  he  sat  in  his  study 
easy-chair,  regarding,  with  a  rather  rueful  twist 
of  his  bushy-browed  visage,  his  colossal  son  who 
stood  before  him  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 

"  For  life  ?  My  dear  father,  haven't  I  already 
told  you  that  the  South  does  not  present  the  con 
ditions  for  the  home  of  a  Northern  man  ?  I  never 
even  remotely  considered  the  possibility  of  staying 
there  longer  than  I  did.  Of  course  I  stayed 

184 


FATHER    AND    SON.  185 

through  the  year  after  the  fever,  as  any  one  would, 
foreseeing  a  return,  in  degree,  of  the  epidemic ;  and 
it  was  scarcely  in  human  nature  to  turn  one's  back 
on  Memphis  and  a  project  we  had  so  much  at  heart 
as  the  drainage  until  that  was  fairly  under  way. 
So  another  year  went  by.  But  as  to  your  illness  — 
my  coming  a  few  months  earlier  than  I  otherwise 
should,  was  not  worth  the  ache  of  your  little 
finger  ! " 

"  Now  don't  take  away  the  solace  of  my  martyr 
dom  !  I  tell  you  it  was  the  only  hope  I  had  of 
inducing  you  to  settle  quietly  at  home,  since  I 
have  given  up  all  idea  of  marriage  for  you." 

"Ah !  you've  given  that  up,  have  you  ?"  said  the 
son,  throwing  back  his  head  with  a  boyish  laugh. 
"  I  thought  you  clung  to  the  hope  with  a  tenacity 
that  was  altogether  disproportioned  to  the  object." 

"Matrimony,"  observed  the  doctor,  "is  a  simple 
matter  of  self-defence ;  a  safeguard  against  perse 
cution  for  clergymen  and  physicians." 

"I  have  never  found  it  a  necessity,"  said  Dr. 
Stephen  indifferently. 

"Ah!  you  have  much  to  learn.  You  have 
never  before  been  placed  in  the  position  of  a 
family  physician  in  fashionable  society.  I  should 


I 86  FATHER    AND    SON. 

have  succumbed  to  persecution  very  soon  if  I  had 
not  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  married  before  I 
began  practice." 

"  And  I  doubt  whether  you  married  my  mother 
as  a  means  of  self-defence." 

"Ah  !  your  mother  was  an  exception,"  said  the 
old  doctor,  with  a  sudden  softening  of  his  rugged 
face.  "Exceptions  don't  apply  to  ordinary  cases." 

"By  the  way,"  said  Stephen,  presently,  "you 
once  made  a  pathetic  appeal  to  me,  I  remember, 
in  behalf  of  Mr.  Lyman's  daughter.  What  has 
become  of  that  paragon  of  yours  ? " 

"What!  don't  you  know?  She  has  been 
Morgan  Amory's  wife  these  three  or  four  years." 

"Amory?  Then  I  must  have  just  missed  see 
ing  her.  I  remember  I  met  him  at  a  New  York 
reception  on  my  way  to  Memphis.  But  Morgan 
Amory!"  in  a  tone  of  disgust,  "and  you  recom 
mended  me  to  try  my  fortune  with  her  ?  What  a 
fatuous  old  match-maker  you  are  !  " 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  Morgan 
Amory  ?" 

"  Nothing  more  than  a  deficiency  in  the  cardiac 
region,  perhaps,"  smiled  the  son,  "and  I  should 
think  the  woman  whose  ideal  of  a  husband  he 


FATHER    AND    SON.  l8/ 

could  satisfy,  must  be  suffering  from  the  same 
lack." 

"Ah !  but  there  was  a  reason  for  that,  I  suspect," 
said  the  old  doctor,  with  some  eagerness.  "  I 
have  always  considered  that  Gladys'  heart  —  quite 
as  warm  an  one  as  your  own,  by  the  way  —  was 
caught  on  the  rebound  from  another  direction." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Stephen  absently.  "  That 
alters  the  case,  of  course."  He  had  taken  up  a 
book  from  the  table  as  he  spoke,  and  was  turning 
over  the  leaves.  Obviously,  the  subject  had  no 
manner  of  interest  for  him,  and  the  old  doctor, 
smothering  a  slight  feeling  of  disappointment, 
since  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  had  acquired  in 
his  profession  a  relish  for  glimpses  behind  the 
scenes,  threw  himself  back  in  his  arm-chair,  and 
sat  regarding  his  son. 

Three  years  of  exposure  to  Southern  climate  and 
struggle  with  Southern  epidemic  had  made  him 
look  older,  certainly  :  the  broad-shouldered  figure 
was  as  robust  as  ever,  but  there  were  heavy  lines 
in  the  face,  and  touches  of  gray  here  and  there  in 
the  hair  beyond  what  belonged  to  his  thirty-seven 
years.  The  face  had  a  rather  grave,  absorbed  ex 
pression,  except  when  something  appealed  to  his 


1 88  FATHER    AND    SON. 

sympathy  or  kindled  his  interest,  and  then  there 
was  a  quick  flash  of  animation,  or  a  beautiful  smile 
that  shone  out  from  eye  and  lip  at  once.  Such  a 
look  flashed  over  it  now. 

"  Good  !  "  he  said,  rising,  and  bending  over  his 
father's  chair,  to  point  out  something  in  the  book 
he  held.  "Now  I  heartily  agree  with  that." 

"The  system  of  medical  education  be 
gins  where  it  should  end ;  it  feeds  the  tree  through 
the  leaves  and  branches  instead  of  through  the 
roots ;  physiology  itself  is  taught  unphysiologi- 
cally.  The  conventional,  hereditary  orthodox  style 
is  for  the  student  to  take  systematic  text-books 
and  go  through  them  systematically  from  begin 
ning  to  end,  reserving  study  at  the  bedside  for  the 
middle  and  later  years  of  his  study.  .  .  .  Psy 
chology  and  experience  require  that  this  should  be 
reversed  ;  the  first  years  of  the  medical  student's 
life  should  be  given  to  the  bedside,  the  laboratory 
and  dissecting-room,  and  the  principles  of  syste 
matic  instruction  should  be  kept  for  the  last  years, 
and  then  used  very  sparingly." 

"Very  true,"  said  the  old  doctor.  "Object 
teaching,  instead  of  text-books,  is  the  cry  of  the 
age,  and  those  of  us  oldsters  who  are  wise,  give  in 


FATHER    AND    SON.  189 

to  it  at  once  without  more  ado.  You  will  have  an 
opportunity  to  put  your  theories  in  practice  with 
your  classes  of  students,  and  I  expect  that  to  make 
amends  to  you  for  the  distasteful  business  I  am 
bringing  on  you." 

"And  that  is  —  ?" 

"All  dancing  attendance  on  fine  ladies,  and 
humoring  their  pampered  nerves." 

"  I  shall  do  little  enough  of  that,  I  assure  you. 
There  couldn't  be  greater  unkindness  to  a  patient." 

"  Unfeeling  fellow  !  In  my  opinion  there  are 
no  diseases  to  compare  with  those  of  the  nervous 
system." 

"  And  I  agree  with  you.  There  are  no  suffer 
ings  to  be  compared  with  those,  and,  when  we 
have  learned  to  treat  them  with  success,  there  will 
be  nothing  left  to  do.  But  we  were  not  speaking  of 
diseases,  were  we  ?  Those,  I  am  sure,  you  never 
tried,  to  reach  by  humoring.  But  don't  trouble 
your  blessed  old  head  any  more  about  the  shoul 
ders  on  which  your  active  practice  has  descended 
for  the  time  being,  and  don't  forget  that  you  are 
my  first  patient.  For  you,  I  prescribe  total  absti 
nence  from  anything  except  the  imparting  of  your 
valuable  advice  in  consultation,  and  literary  labor 


FATHER    AND    SON. 


in  the  medical  line.  But  we  are  curtailing  office 
hours." 

He  passed  his  broad  hand  caressingly  over  his 
father's  gray  hair,  and  betook  himself  to  the  office. 

There  were  several  patients  already  in  the  recep 
tion  room  as  he  entered  ;  two  or  three  ladies  who 
might,  perhaps,  fall  within  the  category  of  patients 
mentioned  by  his  father,  and  a  thin,  hollow-cheeked 
young  man. 

The  first  of  these  occupied  very  little  of  the 
busy  doctor's  time,  for  though  his  manner  could 
not  be  otherwise  than  cordial  and  friendly,  and 
his  mode  of  listening  sympathetic,  there  was  some 
thing  in  his  air  which  forbade  all  lingering  on  a 
topic  —  even  one  so  fascinating  to  some  people  as 
their  own  weak  nerves  or  wretched  ill  health.  He 
listened  attentively,  questioned  minutely,  entering 
the  replies  carefully  in  his  note-book,  wrote  a  pre 
scription  or  did  not  write  one,  as  the  case  might 
be,  said  "  Come  to  me  again  a  week  from  this 
time,  or,  if  there  should  be  urgent  need,  send  for 
me,"  and  bowed  the  patient  out,  with  a  pleasant 
smile,  to  turn  his  attention  to  the  next. 

At  last  it  was  the  young  man's  turn. 

"  Now  what    can   I   do   for  you  ?  "    the   doctor 


FATHER    AND    SON.  IQI 

asked,  in  a  friendly  tone,  shutting  the  door  and 
coming  close  to  the  youth,  whose  sad  eyes  and 
hollow  cheeks  told  their  own  story. 

"  I  came  to  ask  what  you  could  do  for  me,"  he 
answered  moodily.  "  What  is  a  fellow  to  do  when 
he  can't  breathe  in  this  raw  air,  and  is  too  poor  to 
stop  working  and  go  elsewhere  ?  " 

Dr.  Stephen  did  not  answer  for  a  while,  but  gave 
his  whole  attention  to  his  stethoscope,  sounding 
the  diseased  lungs  carefully,  but  showing  no  signs 
of  the  result  to  the  anxious  eyes  fixed  upon  him. 

Then  he  fell  back  a  pace  or  two,  and  regarded 
the  patient  with  a  cheery  expression. 

"  Do  ?  He  is  to  go  off  for  a  vacation  while  the 
raw  air  lasts  —  the  winter  and  early  spring  in 
Florida  would  be  best  —  and  return  to  his  work  a 
new  man,  let  us  trust." 

"All  you  doctors  are  alike  !"  said  the  young  fel 
low  bitterly.  "Go  to  Florida  —  go  to  the  moon  ! 
You  think  it  is  enough  to  say  'Go,'  and  never 
stop  to  think  how  a  man  is  to  do  it !  You  might 
as  well  say  'Fly'  to  me/" 

"There  is  a  great  deal  of  fallacy,  I  grant  you,  in 
medical  advice,"  said  Stephen  pleasantly.  He  had 
seated  himself  at  his  table,  with  his  back  to  the 


192  FATHER    AND    SON. 

patient,  and  wrote  for  a  few  minutes.  Then,  turn 
ing  round  in  the  arm-chair,  he  added,  "Try  this 
prescription,  however;  then,  if  you  do  not  see  any 
ground  for  thinking  it  benefits  you,  come  back  to 
me."  He  handed  him  the  prescription  enclosed 
in  an  envelope,  gave  him  a  friendly  clap  on  the 
shoulder,  and  bowed  him  out  like  the  rest. 

The  youth  had  shut  the  door  with  feelings 
which,  had  the  interests  at  stake  been  less  vital, 
might  have  been  called  sulky.  As  it  was,  the  poor 
fellow  glanced  angrily  up  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
office  window,  muttering  "Yes,  all  alike!  If  a 
man's  pocket  is  well  lined,  there's  an  end  to  his 
his  feelings,  I  believe  !  '  Go  to  Florida  '  to  a  man 
whose  daily  bread  depends  on  his  working  here  ! 
And  that  is  the  sort  of  advice  that  puts  a  doctor  at 
the  head  of  his  profession,  I  suppose!"  He  had 
walked  some  steps  before  he  thought  of  looking  at 
the  enclosed  prescription.  Then  he  drew  it  from 
the  envelope,  glanced  at  it,  still  with  the  same 
bitter  expression,  stopped  short  on  the  sidewalk, 
and  uttered  a  half-articulate  exclamation.  It  was  a 
check  folded  round  a  card,  on  which  were  written 
the  names  of  several  popular  resorts  in  Florida. 

"Whew!"  said  the  poor  young  man,  coloring 


FATHER    AND    SON.  I 93 

furiously,  in  spite  of  his  pallor,  and,  turning  on 
the  instant,  he  hurried  back  to  the  doctor's. 

The  room  had  filled  during  his  interview,  and 
he  sat,  fidgeting  nervously  under  his  embarrass 
ment  and  suspense,  until  Stephen  entered.  His 
quick  eye  caught  sight  of  the  young  man  at  once, 
and  he  advanced  towards  him.  But  as  the  youth 
arose  with  an  agitated  "  What  can  I  say,  doctor  ? 
I  —  " 

He  cut  him  short  by  saying  in  a  curt,  business 
like  tone,  which  the  pleasant  twinkle  in  his  eyes 
belied,  "  Nothing  at  present,  if  you  please,  my 
friend  !  I  have  an  imperative  engagement  imme 
diately  after  office  hours.  Follow  my  directions 
faithfully,  and  let  me  see  you  again." 

And  he  was  gone,  leaving  the  discomfited 
patient  to  his  own  reflections. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 


FILLING   THE* VOID. 


Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference.  , 

Yet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they  grow  ; 
The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of  man. 

TENNYSON. 


DR.  STEPHEN  FORBES  and  Mrs.  Amory 
were  not  long  in  meeting,  but  the  acquaint 
ance  did  not,  at  first,  ripen  beyond  the  ceremonious 
stages.  Stephen's  interest  did  not  lie  in  the  direc 
tion  of  society  women  (except,  indeed,  so  far  as  his 
profession  demanded)  and  as  such  he  classed  Gladys. 
Beyond  noting  the  fact  that  she  seemed  more  cold 
and  inanimate  in  manner  than  he  should  have  sup 
posed  natural  in  one  of  her  physique,  he  did  not 
give  her  a  thought. 

"  I  don't  think  he  will  ever  be  as  popular  as 
the  old  doctor,"  said  Madge,  now  a  plump,  happy- 
faced  young  matron,  as  easy  in  temperament  as 
her  husband,  Edward  Boylston,  and  as  outspoken 

194 


FILLING    THE    VOID.  IQ5 

as  in  the  days  of  her  girlhood.  "  He  is  not  ex 
pansive  enough  for  a  family  physician." 

Gladys  laughed. 

"  That  is  rather  an  inappropriate  word,  I  allow, 
but  you  know  what  I  mean.  Charlie  tells  me  the 
medical -students  are  wild  about  him,  but,  if  Ned  or 
the  baby  were  ailing,  I  know  that  I  should  regret 
the  dear  old  chatty  doctor.  I  know,  of  old,  that 
his  bark  is  v/orse  than  his  bite,  while  I  have  no 
experience  of  these  lofty  abstractions." 

One  morning  Gladys  had  driven  from  her  home 
to  one  of  the  most  dreary,  poverty-stricken  wards 
of  the  city,  and,  dismissing  her  carriage,  plunged 
on  foot  into  some  of  the  narrow  courts  and  alleys, 
filled  with  tenement  houses  and  teeming  with 
squalid  misery. 

These  were  the  early  days  of  "  Associated  Char 
ities,"  and  rich  and  poor  were  beginning  to  come 
together  in  the  effort  to  solve  the  problem  of  en 
lightened  relief.  "Not  alms,  but  a  friend,"  seemed, 
if  fitly  followed,  a  hopeful  watchword,  and  Gladys, 
to  whom  it  appealed  on  a  very  tender  point  of  sym 
pathy,  was  trying  it  faithfully  with  two  families, 
often  disheartened  by  the  apparent  lack  of  result, 
often  inclined  to  relax  in  her  efforts  to  uplift,  and 


196  FILLING    THE    VOID. 

say,  pitifully,  "  Poor  creatures  !  what  else  could  be 
looked  for  in  such  wretched  surroundings  ?  Should 
we  not  all  be  the  same  ? "  yet  trying  patiently  still 
with  the  earnestness  that  was  the  groundwork  of 
her  nature. 

She  had  turned  into  a  poor  little  alley,  with 
gaunt,  sunless  houses  on  either  side,  children  pad 
dling  in  the  black  stagnant  pools  that  settled 
among  the  sunken  paving-stones,  and  sickening 
odors  coming  from  the  open  doors  of  the  over 
crowded  houses.  As  she  paused  on  the  steps  of 
one  of  these  before  climbing  the  stairs,  a  window 
in  the  upper  story  was  thrown  open,  and  a  man's 
voice  —  a  cultured  voice,  too,  with  a  familiar  ring 
in  it  —  called  something  which,  at  first,  she  did 
not  hear.  She  looked  up,  but  only  saw  a  hand  on 
the  window-sash. 

"  I  said,  don't  come  into  the  house,  and  leave 
the  court  at  once  !  "  repeated  the  voice. 

She  stood  a  moment,  hesitating  whether  or  not 
to  obey  the  brusque  mandate,  when  her  dress  was 
pulled  from  behind,  and  she  found  herself  con 
fronted  by  a  bright-faced  little  fellow,  one  of  the 
numerous  progeny  of  "her  families." 

"The  big  doctor  says  'Go  home,  Missis,'  "  said 


FILLING    THE    VOID. 


the  urchin.     "  Some  in  the  house  has  scarlet  fever, 

but  don't  you  be  afeared  of  me.     I  ain't  been  near 

'em." 

"  The  '  big  doctor  ?  '  "  repeated  Gladys. 

"  Yes  ;  him  that  comes  so  often.     I  donno  his 

name,  but  he's  a  real  nice  one.     He  was  here  most 

all  last  night." 

Gladys    walked    slowly   away,    yielding    rather 

reluctantly  to  the  necessity  of  the  case,  and  draw 
ing  from  the  shrewd  little  urchin  as  she  went,  all 
possible  information  in  regard  to  the  domestic 
affairs  of  her  proteges, 

Late  in  the  next  afternoon  she  was  standing 
before  her  easel,  trying  earnestly  to  get  a  satis 
factory  likeness  of  little  Tom,  whom  she  had 
coaxed  to  quiescence  by  the  charge  to  keep  the 
Scotch  terrier  still.  He  sat  upright,  with  glowing 
cheeks,  on  the  crimson  rug  she  had  spread  for  him, 
his  eyes  fixed  intently  on  the  poor  animal,  whom 
he  was  almost  suffocating  with  the  tight  clasp  of 
his  chubby  arms.  Gradually,  however,  the  arms 
relaxed  their  hold,  the  curly  head  sank  lower  and 
lower  until  it  rested  on  the  dog's  back,  and  Tom 
fell  fast  asleep,  the  only  condition  in  which  he  was 
ever  known  to  be  long  still.  Gladys  worked 


198  FILLING    THE    VOID. 

eagerly  to  improve  the  favorable  opportunity, 
lending  but  half  an  ear  to  the  lively  rattle  of  her 
cousin  Madge,  who  sat  beside  her.  Fooisteps 
passed  the  door  on  their  way  to  the  picture 
gallery,  which  was  on  the  same  landing. 

"Morgan  is  taking  Doctor  Stephen  Forbes  to  see 
his  new  purchase,  I  suppose,"  said  Madge,  glancing 
through  the  open  door  as  they  passed.  "And,  by 
the  way,  Gladys,  I  quite  take  back  what  I  said  the 
other  day  about  him.  So  far,  at  least,  as  children 
are  concerned,  he  is  quite  attentive  enough  to 
please  the  fondest  mamma.  Sallie's  teeth  have 
worried  her  so  much  lately  that  I  sent  for  him. 
So  far  from  being  indifferent,  one  would  have 
thought  that  the  child  was  his  sole  patient,  while 
she  —  " 

"  I  have  brought  Dr.  Forbes  to  make  his  apolo 
gies,  Gladys,"  said  her  husband's  measured  tones 
at  the  door,  "  though  for  what  I  do  not  know. 
May  we  come  in  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  if  you  will  let  me  go  on  with  my 
work,"  said  Gladys,  looking  up  with  a  bright  smile, 
ancl  pointing  to  the  little  picture  on  the  floor  ;  "  I 
cannot  afford  to  lose  that !  " 

She  looked  so  full  of  animation  and  loving  pride, 


FILLING    THE    VOID.  199 

so  different  from  the  cold,  conventional  beauty  of 
the  ball-room  whom  he  had  hitherto  seen,  that  she 
seemed  to  Stephen  a  different  woman.  They  ad 
vanced  towards  her  through  the  long  room,  the 
doctor's  stalwart  figure  completely  dwarfing  Mor 
gan  Amory's  elegant  slimness  ;  but  as  his  eye  fell 
on  the  bright  rug,  with  the  sleeping  cherub  lying 
on  it,  he  stopped  and  bent  down  to  look  at  the 
little  fellow  more  closely,  exclaiming  in  a  tone  of 
the  heartiest  admiration,  "Oh  !  what  a  boy." 

Nothing  could  have  delighted  both  parents  more 
than  the  simplicity  of  the  tribute,  for  if  there  were 
one  thing  in  this  world  that  never  palled  upon  his 
father's  outworn  fancy,  it  was  little  Tom,  and  the 
fact  that  others  should  recognize  him  as  a  unique, 
seemed  to  him  only  his  due.  The  two  gentlemen 
stood  silent  for  a  while  beside  Gladys  as  she 
worked,  lips  parted  and  cheeks  flushed  in  her 
eagerness  to  finish  her  charcoal  sketch  before  the 
child  should  wake.  Stephen  glanced  at  her,  half- 
amused,  then  round  the  walls  of  the  room,  lined 
with  pictures  or  studies  in  various  stages  of  prog 
ress. 

"  Mrs.  Amory  is  an  artist,  con  amore"  said 
her  husband,  somewhat  pompously,  following  the 


2OO  FILLING    THE    VOID. 

glance.  "  Indeed,  she  works  over  her  canvas  far 
more  than  I  approve  for  a  mere  pastime." 

"  I  have  never  looked  upon  it  as  that,  exactly, 
you  know,  Morgan,"  said  Gladys,  with  a  smiling 
shake  of  the  head. 

"  Have  you  ever  exhibited  anything  ?  "  asked  the 
doctor,  who  was  slowly  walking  about  the  room, 
surveying  the  pictures,  his  hands  behind  him  and 
a  look  of  pleased  surprise  growing  on  his  face. 

"  No,  never." 

"  Not,  surely,  from  any  doubt  of  the  worthiness 
of  your  work  ?  " 

Mr.  Amory  bowed,  as  if  the  implied  compliment 
were  a  personal  one. 

"  And  Dr.  Forbes  is  a  judge  of  pictures,  I  find," 
he  said  blandly.  "  No,  it  is  a  mere  amateur  pur 
suit,  Doctor,  and  that  is  why  I  find  fault  with  the 
ardor  that  Mrs.  Amory  bestows  upon  it." 

"  But  you  know,"  said  Gladys,  pausing  with  up 
lifted  charcoal,  "  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  work 
in  any  other  way.  I  should  lose  all  interest  in 
anything  that  I  considered  a  mere  pastime.  I 
never  do  expect  any  work  of  mine  to  be  exhibited, 
thank  you,  Dr.  Forbes,  but  I  work  like  an  artist 
rather  than  an  amateur,  because  it  is  the  only  way 


FILLING    THE    VOID.  2OI 

in  which  I  can  make  my  criticism  or  appreciation 
of  value  to  a  young  friend  of  mine,  who  will,  I 
hope,  be  an  artist  one  day." 

"  Oh  !  Gladys  puts  so  much  conscience  into  every 
thing  she  does,"  said  Madge,  with  a  comical  air 
of  desperation.  "  It  is  one  of  her  idiosyncrasies. 
Even  those  weary  '  Associated  Charities  '  of  hers 
—  how  she  labors  over  those  poor  people  !  To 
my  uninitiated  mind  it  would  be  so  much  easier  to 
give  the  poor  souls  a  new  suit  of  clothes  all  round 
and  a  handful  of  money  apiece,  and  let  them  fend 
for  themselves." 

"  A  great  deal  easier  !  "  laughed  Gladys,  while 
Stephen  looked  somewhat  quizzically  embarrassed 
at  this  sudden  reminder  of  his  forgotten  apology. 

"  Does  that  work  interest  you  so  much  ?  "  he 
asked,  with  one  of  his  kindly  glances  at  Gladys. 

"  Yes,  very  deeply." 

"  And  will  you  let  me  apologize  for  my  abrupt 
warning  the  other  day  ?  "  said  the  doctor,  a  boyish 
red  overspreading  his  manly  face  ;  "  that  was  what 
I  came  for.  I  was  afraid  you  would  come  upstairs, 
and  I  could  not  warn  you  face  to  face  just  then." 

"Then  it  was  you?"  returned  Gladys  smilingly. 
"I  quite  understood  —  at  least  with  a  little  help 


2O2  FILLING    THE    VOID. 

from  Mike  Flaherty.  But,  Dr.  Forbes,  may  I  ask 
you  — 

Just  here,  however,  little  Tom,  awakened  by  the 
voices,  raised  his  head,  and  the  dog,  overjoyed  at 
his  release,  darted  behind  the  friendly  shelter  of 
Gladys'  skirts.  The  child  sat  upright,  rubbing  his 
eyes  with  a  half-indignant  protest  against  sleepi 
ness,  and  staring  at  Stephen  who  stood  beside  his 
mother. 

"  Well,  my  boy,"  said  the  doctor,  "  will  you 
come  and  make  friends  ?  " 

And  Tom,  in  unwonted  graciousness  to  a  stran 
ger,  held  out  his  arms,  exclaiming  "  Up  high  !  " 

The  child  shouted  with  glee  as  Stephen  tossed 
him  up  in  his  strong  arms,  then  perched  himself 
contentedly  on  his  knee  and  wound  his  watch- 
chain  round  his  chubby  fingers,  smiling  up,  mean 
while,  into  the  strange  face  above  him. 

"  Just  like  Sallie,"  observed  Mrs.  Madge.  "  How 
do  you  contrive  to  make  children  so  fond  of  you, 
Doctor  ?  " 

"  No  magic  about  it,  I  suspect,"  smiled  Stephen, 
putting  an  arm  round  the  child,  "  only  a  response 
to  a  previous  attraction." 

"  It   is  an   excellent   gift  for  a  physician  ;  the 


FILLING    THE    VOID.  2O3 

only  reason  why  I  ever  thought  I  should  prefer 
a  woman  doctor  is  because  women  are  usually  less 
formidable  to  children  —  and,  by  the  way,"  said 
Madge,  her  thoughts  skipping  from  one  thing  to 
another  with  all  the  old  agility,  "  what  do  you 
think  of  women  doctors  ?  " 

"  Think  ?  Why,  I  think  there  is  a  wide  field 
for  them,  certainly,  if  they  have  the  patience  and 
strength  of  nerve  requisite  for  the  profession. 
But  your  question  is  rather  a  broad  one,  Mrs. 
Boylston.  Are  you  asking  my  opinion  of  them  as 
a  class,  or  of  the  demand  for  them  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  is  a  subject  that  seems  to  take  up  a 
good  deal  of  people's  attention  just  now,"  replied 
Madge,  whose  tongue  was  apt  to  be  somewhat 
vaguely  glib  about  the  last  new  "craze."  "  I  sup 
pose  you  have  read  '  Dr.  Breen's  Practice'  —  or 
don't  you  read  novels?" 

"  I  have  read  that." 

"  But  I  hope  you  don't  agree  with  Mr.  Howells 
-  I  mean  I  hope  you  don't  think  such  a  wretch 
edly  morbid,  weak  creature  as  Grace  Breen  a  fair 
type  of  all  women  doctors  ?  " 

"  Most  certainly  not.  In  point  of  fact,  a  woman 
like  Dr.  Breen  could  never  have  studied  the  medi- 


2O4  FILLING    THE    VOID. 

cal  profession  at  all.  Her  lack  of  nerve  would 
have  told  at  her  first  entrance  into  a  dissecting 
room,  and  her  irresolution  would  have  made  her 
turn  back  at  the  first  shadow  of  responsibility." 

"  I'm  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  that  ! "  cried 
Madge.  "  I  have  always  had  an  idea  that  medical 
men  were  most  unjust  to  women  doctors." 

"  Not  to  thoroughly  trained  ones,  I  am  sure. 
But  it  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  meet  such." 

"Why,  Madge,"  said  Gladys,  who  had  been 
silently  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  her  sketch, 
and  glancing,  now  and  then,  with  a  mother's  radi 
ant  smile,  at  little  Tom,  "  I  never  before  heard  you 
so  eloquent  on  the  subject  of  women  doctors." 

"  Because  my  theories  never  before  had  a  person 
behind  them,  my  dear !  You  know  we  ladies  are 
said  always  to  espouse  a  cause  for  the  sake  of 
some  individual  representative  of  it,  Doctor.  I 
happened,  the  other  day,  to  visit  that  hospital  for 
women  at  the  South  End,  and  there  I  saw  a  little 
woman  who  was  my  very  ideal  of  a  woman  physi 
cian.  My  conversion  was  instantaneous.  I  seemed 
to  realize  on  the  spot  the  comfort,  the  relief,  that 
those  poor  creatures  must  feel  in  being  under  the 
care  of  a  woman  like  themselves.  Why,  half  the 


FILLING    THE    VOID. 


suffering,  seemed  lifted  off  at  once  —  I  could  be 
eloquent  on  the  subject  if  I  chose  !  You  must 
both  see  Dr.  Martyn." 

"  I  have  long  known  her,"  said  Stephen  quietly. 

"  Oh  !  of  course.  Your  father  has  been  so  in 
terested  in  that  hospital,  and  just  now  you  are 
filling  his  place." 

"Our  acquaintance  dates  back  much  farther 
than  that  —  to  our  student  days  abroad,  in  fact. 
She  is  one  of  the  bravest  women  I  ever  knew,  and 
if  you  want  an  epitome  of  what,  in  my  opinion,  a 
qualified  woman  doctor  may  be,  Mrs.  Boylston,  I 
can't  do  better  than  advise  you  to  make  Dr. 
Martyn's  acquaintance." 

"  But  what,"  pursued  Madge,  "  is  your  idea  of 
marriage  for  professional  women  ?  I  believe  that, 
after  all,  is  the  touchstone  of  magnanimity  in  a 
man's  views  of  women's  work.  One  hears  the 
cry  so  often  '  Oh  !  there  can  be  no  seriousness  in  a 
woman's  profession,  because  as  soon  as  she  marries, 
she  will  drop  it.'  What  do  you  say  on  that  sub 
ject,  Doctor  ?  " 

"Why,  there,  you  know,  is  just  where  I  feel  my 
ignorance,"  said  Stephen  merrily.  "  I  should  say, 
however,  in  looking  at  the  medical  profession  for 


2O6  FILLING    THE    VOID. 

women,  that  it  must  be  a  question  of  alternatives 
for  them.  If  marriage  stands  in  the  balance,  they 
must  weigh  their  profession  against  it,  and  see 
which  they  will  relinquish.  I  don't  plead  guilty 
to  any  want  of  magnanimity  in  the  matter,  Mrs. 
Boylston  —  it  seems  to  me  merely  the  necessity 
of  the  case.  Commonly,  I  think  you  will  find  that 
the  woman  has  considered  the  subject  at  the  out 
set,  and  set  marriage  aside  before  entering  heartily 
on  the  preparation  for  her  profession  ;  it  is  not  the 
only  fate  for  women  here  in  Massachusetts,  you 
know  !  And  even  if  it  be  allowed  that  woman's 
work  is  liable,  at  any  time,  to  be  set  aside,  let  us 
hope  that,  like  Mrs.  Amory,  the  worker  may  find 
the  idea  of  doing  anything  '  for  mere  pastime  '  so 
repugnant  to  her  ideal,  that  the  work,  while  it 
does  go  on,  will  be  as  masterly  as  if  it  were  to  last 
for  a  lifetime." 

"  I  do  nof  think  I  ever  heard  of  a  married 
woman  doctor,"  said  Madge  thoughtfully.  "  Grace 
Breen  doesn't  count,  for  it  took  much  less  dis 
couraging  circumstances  than  marriage  to  put  her 
out  of  heart  with  her  work.  I  must  examine  Dr. 
Martyn  on  the  subject  when  I  know  her  a  little 
better." 


FILLING    THE    VOID.  2O/ 

Mr.  Amory,  who  had  for  some  time  been  chaf 
ing  under  a  topic  wholly  alien  to  his  sympathies, 
now  interposed  by  carrying  Stephen  off  to  the 
smoking-room,  but  he  left  a  favorable  impression 
behind  him. 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  he  had  any  interests  out 
side  of  his  profession,"  Mr.  Amory  remarked 
later,  "  and  there  can  be  no  more  tiresome  com 
pany  than  a  man  with  a  hobby.  But  he  has  really 
an  unusually  good  eye  for  a  picture.  I  shall  be 
glad  to  see  him  often." 

The  presence  of  one's  physician,  Mr.  Amory  re 
flected,  is  less  onerous  than  that  of  one's  clergy 
man,  as  requiring  no  special  effort  on  the  part  of 
the  host  in  toning  up  to  a  given  elevation,  real  or 
imaginary.  The  two  men  were  most  unlike,  cer 
tainly,  but  there  was  a  pleasant  bonhomie  about 
Stephen  that  seemed  to  adapt  itself  to  all  men. 
He  grew  rather  interested  in  comparing  Mr.  Amory 
and  his  father-in-law,  the  two  types  of  manhood 
with  whom  Mrs.  Amory  might  be  supposed  to 
be  most  familiar,  and  which  might  possibly  account 
for  certain  peculiarities  in  her,  that  he  fancied 
foreign  to  her  nature. 

There  was  a  certain  likeness  between  them,  but, 


2O8  FILLING    THE    VOID. 

while  Mr.  Amory's  interest  seemed  to  be  confined 
to  persons  and  things  as  relating  to  himself  ex 
clusively,  Mr.  Lyman's  egotism  took  a  wider  sweep 
and  looked  at  society  not  so  much  from  the  self- 
centred  standpoint  as  through  the  prejudices  of 
long  descent  or  unblemished  standing.  Both  were, 
in  a  measure,  selfish  men,  but  Mr.  Lyman's  type 
of  selfishness  seemed  less  narrow  than  that  of  his 
son-in-law.  Gladys  treated  him  always  with  beau 
tiful  tenderness  and  consideration;  almost  as  if  she 
wished  to  make  amends  to  him  for  something  ;  yet, 
strange  to  say,  he  never  seemed  completely  at  ease 
with  her,  but  rather  as  if  he  were  laboring  to  rein 
state  himself  in  some  position  in  her  esteem  which 
he  felt  himself  to  have  forfeited. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

NEW    LINKS. 

.     .     .     Life  means,  be  sure, 

Both  heart  and  head  —  both  active,  both  complete, 
And  both  in  earnest. 

MRS  BROWNING. 

THE  doctor  overtook  Mrs.  Amory  one  day  as 
she  was  slowly  walking  down  Beacon  Hill, 
looking  thoughtfully  out  over  the  brick-built  slope 
and  the  leafless  feathery  twigs  of  the  tree-tops  to  the 
golden  water  and  the  bright  winter  sunset  beyond. 
There  was  a  shade  of  sadness  on  her  face  which  it 
never  wore  in  society,  or  in  the  home  life  in  which 
Stephen  was  beginning  to  know  her  best.  With 
her  children  she  was  always  radiantly,  almost  girl 
ishly  bright  and  sunny.  Unconsciously,  Stephen 
had  become  observant  of  Mrs.  Amory's  changes 
of  expression,  and  he  noted  this  before  they  had 
walked  the  length  of  two  blocks. 

"  Have  you  seen  anything  of  your  families  lately  ? 
209 


2IO  NEW    LINKS. 

I  have  not  been  in  that  region  since  the  epidemic 
was  over." 

"  And  I  have  just  come  from  there.  Dr.  Forbes, 
do  you  never  feel  disheartened  when  you  are 
brought  into  contact  with  that  class  ?  Does  it  not 
seem  to  you  as  if  all  you  could  do  were  but  the 
most  wretched  playing  with  this  problem  of  riches 
and  poverty  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,"  said  the  doctor  cheerfully.  "  You 
know  that  the  errand  on  which  we  doctors  go  makes 
us  forget  all  that.  Disease  and  recovery  are  a  good 
deal  alike  under  all  conditions,  and  that  occupies 
us  so  much  that  there  is  no  room  for  question 
whether  or  not  we  are  doing  our  best  in  the  case 
under  our  hands.  We  must  be  doing  that  if  we 
are  doctors  at  all.  But  I  understand  you,  Mrs. 
Amory.  The  relation  of  the  rich  and  poor  in 
great  cities  is  certainly  the  hardest  problem  of  all 
to  solve." 

"  I  wish  we  could  abolish  the  distinctions  of  rich 
and  poor  !  "  Gladys  exclaimed  almost  passionately. 

"What,  you  are  an  anarchist,  Mrs.  Amory? 
Abolish  the  distinctions  between  labor  and  capital, 
that  is  their  cry,  you  know.  Believe  me,  that  could 
not  be  done.  There  is  no  such  sharp  distinction  ; 


NEW    LINKS.  21  I 

every  laborer  becomes  himself  a  capitalist  so  soon 
as  he  has  twenty-five  cents  to  spend,  and  a  dinner 
to  buy.  Labor  stands  for  whatever  money  will  pur 
chase,  and  when  will  money  be  abolished  ?  Neither 
can  the  rich  man  be  set  so  wholly  apart  from  his 
poorer  brother;  we  are  all  mutually  dependent,  and, 
if  the  distinctions  of  property  were  swept  away  to 
morrow,  there  would  be  rich  men  and  poor  men 
before  sunset.  But  I  must  not  turn  your  heartfelt 
wish  into  a  lecture  on  labor  and  capital.  I  under 
stand  your  perplexity ;  we  are  coming  now  to  no 
bler  and  higher  views  of  charity.  A  little  money 
or  a  little  coal  is  an  easy  thing  to  give  ;  but  to  give 
out  of  one's  higher  possessions,  intelligence,  cult 
ure  or  character,  taxes  the  individual  powers.  I 
had  thought,  however,  that  you  were  taking  up 
the  question  in  just  that  way.  Are  you  not  trying 
to  do  too  much,  making  too  many  demands  on 
your  life,  which  has  such  varied  calls?" 

"  My  life  ?  Oh  ! "  said  Gladys  sadly,  "my  life  is 
never  full." 

The  doctor  glanced  quickly  at  her,  with  his  keen 
look  of  inquiry.  What  was  this  void  which  she 
seemed  to  feel  so  deeply,  setting  its  seal  even  on 
he,r  face  in  the  midst  of  everything  that  the  world 


212  NEW    LINKS. 

would  call  all-sufficing  ?  Involuntarily,  he  remem 
bered  his  father's  hint.  Had  there  been  truth  in 
that,  and  was  that  the  cause  of  this  aching  sense 
of  emptiness  ? 

"  Not  full  ?"  he  echoed,  with  a  shade  of  protest 
in  the  surprise  of  his  tone.  "  What,  with  your 
children,  your  artistic  gifts  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  mean  in  that  way,"  said  Gladys,  shak 
ing  her  head.  "  My  life  is  full  of  blessings  and 
privileges,  ;  the  question  is,  What  do  I  make  of  my 
opportunities  ?  Do  I  do  anybody  any  real  good,  or 
make  myself  necessary  to  any  one  ?  " 

Stephen  Forbes  was  a  very  simple  and  sincere 
man.  His  habit  was  to  say  little,  but  if  occasion 
arose  for  a  word,  he  did  not  pause  to  weigh  it  in 
the  scales.  He  spoke  what  came  into  his  mind 
with  frankness  that  was  even  blunt. 

"  That  is  not  the  vital  question,"  he  said  quietly. 
"That  is  only  a  refined  form  of  selfishness." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  Gladys,  glancing  at 
him  m  surprise.  She  did  not  speak  in  displeasure, 
however,  but  humbly. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Stephen,  less  brusquely,  "  that 
if  we  earnestly  try  to  do  our  best  in  any  work,  we 
need  not  so  much  trouble  ourselves  about  our  own 


NEW    LINKS.  213 

part  in  it.  We  may  let  it  stand  for  what  it  is 
worth,  and  be  content,  even  if  we  do  not  seem, 
individually,  to  be,  as  you  say,  necessary  to  any 
one.  Excuse  my  freedom  in  speaking  —  shall  I 
tell  you  one  very  excellent  way  of  being  of  use  to 
some  one  ? " 

"  I  wish  you  would,"  said  Gladys  gratefully. 

"  You  have  heard  me  speak  of  the  hospital  for 
poor  women,  in  which  Dr.  Martyn  is  resident 
physician.  It  is  always  full,  and  when  one  patient 
recovers  enough  to  leave,  her  place  is  filled  at  once 
by  another  poor  creature  who  has  been  waiting 
her  chance.  We  would  so  gladly  have  more  free 
beds." 

"  And  I  would  so  gladly  give  the  money  for  one. 
Thank  you,  Dr.  Forbes  !  You  laugh,  but  it  is 
really  kindness  to  tell  me  where  to  give  money 
most  wisely.  That  kind  of  charity  does  not  tax 
my  capacities  as  the  other  does.  I  look  upon  it  as 
a  species  of  indulgence." 

"  But  don't  be  satisfied  with  my  recommenda 
tion,"  said  the  doctor,  turning  so  that  he  could  see 
the  brightened  face.  "  Go  and  see  the  place  for 
yourself.  I  think  you  will  like  Dr.  Martyn." 

In  fact,  the  opportunity  thus  afforded  for  the 


214  NEW     LINKS. 

acquaintance  had  been  in  his  thoughts  quite  as  much 
as  the  benefaction  to  the  hospital.  That  a  society 
woman  should  occupy  his  thoughts  at  all  was  an 
anomaly,  but  since  it  was  so,  consciously  or  other 
wise,  it  is  a  fact  that  Dr.  Stephen  often  considered 
the  probable  effect  of  certain  interests  or  occupa 
tions  on  Mrs.  Amory. 

"  Come  in,  won't  you  ?  "  said  Gladys  at  the  door. 
"Tom  speaks  of  you  so  often.  You  quite  won 
his  heart  by  your  treatment  of  the  measles.  A 
doctor  who  combines  stories  with  physic  is  irre 
sistible  ! " 

Stephen  accepted  the  invitation,  nothing  loath  to 
see  the  bright-eyed  cherub  who  met  his  mother 
at  the  nursery  door  with, — "  Tom  sick,  mamma  ! 
Send  for  that  nice  big  man  ! " 

"  Oh  !  you  cunning  rogue,"  cried  Gladys,  throw 
ing  off  her  furs  and  catching  the  little  fellow  in 
her  arms.  "  Tom  is  a  humbug  !  Well,  put  your 
head  down  on  mamma's  shoulder,  poor  sick  boy, 
and  hide  your  eyes.  We'll  count  one  hundred  and 
then  perhaps  we  may  see  'that  nice  big  man.'  ' 

The  two  stood  with  closed  eyes,  Gladys  slowly 
counting  aloud  —  a  pretty  tableau  as  the  doctor 
crept  noiselessly  upstairs.  Then  at  the  word  "  one 


NEW    LINKS.  215 

hundred  !  "  the  curly  head  was  raised  from  Gladys' 
shoulder  and  the  little  face  looked  up  with  wide- 
open  expectant  blue  eyes.  Oh  !  the  shout  of  glee 
when  he  saw  the  tall  figure  appearing  as  if  by 
magic,  the  bound  from  his  mother's  clasp,  and  the 
warm  soft  little  arms  thrown  round  Stephen's 
neck  !  The  baby  in  her  nurse's  arms  crowed  and 
laughed  in  sympathy ;  it  would  be  long  before  the 
sound  of  the  sweet  little  voices  died  away  on  the 
doctor's  ear ! 

The  hospital  stood  on  one  of  the  wide  sunny 
streets  at  the  South  End  --  a  cheerful-looking 
place,  with  plants  blooming  in  the  windows,  and 
a  peaceful  air  of  repose  in  the  airy  rooms  with 
their  small  white  beds,  suggestive  of  anything 
rather  than  scenes  of  suffering.  There  were  even 
many  cheerful  faces  among  the  patient  ones  on  the 
pillows,  and  all  brightened  in  the  presence  of  the 
little  doctor,  who  moved  quietly  about,  serene  and 
smiling,  and  carried  sunshine  wherever  she  went. 
Gladys  and  her  cousin  Madge  were  frequent  visi 
tors  at  the  hospital,  the  latter  chiefly  because  Dr. 
Martyn  was  her  last  new  hobby,  while  with  Gladys 
it  had  become  a  very  real  and  vivid  interest.  This 


2l6  NEW    LINKS. 

interest  had  not  ceased  with  the  bestowal  of  the 
fund  for  the  free  bed ;  a  candidate  for  her  syrru 
pathies  had  appeared  in  the  occupant,  a  poor 
seamstress  who  had  broken  down  under  the  strain 
of  long-continued  stitching,  and,  from  interest  in 
her  case,  Mrs.  Amory  had  grown  to  feel  interest  in 
all.  Not  the  least  attractive  feature  was  Dr. 
Martyn  herself,  between  whom  and  Gladys  there 
was  a  strong  mutual  drawing  together.  Clara 
Martyn's  trained  eye  had  acquired  a  habit  of 
analysing  people  as  she  did  cases.  She  made  a 
mental  diagnosis,  said  nothing,  but  silently  noted 
it  down  in  her  own  mind  for  future  reference. 

"She  is  a  case  of  arrested  development,"  she 
said  to  herself  as  she  studied  Gladys.  "  She  has 
suffered  in  some  way  from  a  chilling  atmosphere. 
She  has  a  nature  that,  under  sunny,  genial  skies, 
would  have  thrown  out  shoots  in  all  directions, 
like  a  generous  blossoming  vine,  but  since  they 
were  blighted,  many  of  the  poor  tendrils  have  been 
forced  back  on  themselves.  I  wonder  if  she  can 
have  made  a  happy  marriage  ? " 

Madge  was  less  discreetly  silent  in  her  wonder 
as  to  her  new  friend's  past  life. 

"Do  tell  us,"  she  said  one  day,  "what  first  in- 


NEW    LINKS.  217 

duced  you  to  be  a  doctor.  You  must  have  been 
very  young  when  you  began  to  study  ;  were  there 
no  sacrifices  to  be  made  when  you  took  up  the 
profession  ?  " 

Madge's  curiosity  was  so  smiling  and  good-na 
tured  that  it  could  not  offend,  even  though  it 
might  be  wanting  in  entire  delicacy. 

"  None  that  -weighed  with  me,"  Clara  replied 
serenely.  "  The  first  incentive,  Mrs.  Boylston, 
was  the  fact  that  I  had  seen,  as  a  child,  so  much 
suffering  during  the  yellow  fever  seasons  in  my 
native  city,  Memphis,  that  I  learned  early  to  long 
to  struggle  with  the  disease.  When  my  parents 
died  of  it,  my  mind  was  made  up.  I  went  abroad 
to  study,  and  came  home  just  in  time  to  grapple 
with  the  enemy." 

"  And  be  worsted  !  "  said  Gladys  sympatheti 
cally. 

"Oh  no!"  said  the  little  doctor  calmly,  "not 
worsted  since  the  epidemic  has  ceased  there, 
though  I  might  not  have  been  on  the  spot  in  per 
son  to  see  the  triumph.  It  doesn't  matter  who 
gains  a  cause  if  the  cause  be  gained.  I  did  what 
I  could." 

"  But,"  continued  Madge,  "  when  you  began  to 


218  NEW    LINKS. 

study  did  you  never  dream,  as  most  young  girls  do, 
of  marriage  ?  " 

"Perhaps  I  did,"  said  Clara,  smiling,  "but  the 
dream  faded  very  soon.  I  had  an  intense  reality 
before  me  instead  of  a  dream  —  all  the  hard  work 
and  study,  the  difficulties  and  the  delights  of  the 
medical  profession.  The  idea  of  a  perfect  mar 
riage  looked  a  very  shadowy  dream  beside  that,  for 
I  had  seldom  seen  it  in  actual  life,  and  any  mar 
riage  less  than  perfect  would  have  been  impossible 
to  me." 

Gladys  winced. 

"But  suppose  it  should  present  itself  now," 
pursued  Madge,  "  should  you  feel  obliged  to  give 
up  your  calling  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  unlikely  that  it  ever  will,"  replied 
Clara,  with  just  a  shade  of  impatience  in  her  tone. 
"  We  doctors  have  to  concern  ourselves  with 
realities,  my  dear  Mrs.  Boylston.  At  present  'I 
think  of  my  work  here  and  my  poor  women  ;  by 
and  by  I  shall  probably  go  back  to  Memphis." 

"And  leave  the  work  here  ?  "  asked  Gladys,  in 
surprise.  "  Leave  so  many  people  who  love  you 
and  depend  on  you  ?" 

"  Not  while  they  need  me,  certainly.     But  there 


NEW    LINKS.  219 

will  be  others  to  fill  the  post  here,  and  others  there, 
too,  whom  I  can  serve.  Work  is  impersonal,  dear 
Mrs.  Amory  —  all  the  best  work,  that  is,  whether 
it  be  preaching,  teaching  or  healing  —  done  for  the 
work's  sake,  not  for  the  individual,  or  for  our  own 
personal  share  in  it.  It  should  be  like  the  rain 
and  the  sunshine,  falling  on  all  alike." 

"  You  agree  with  Doctor  Stephen  Forbes,"  said 
Gladys,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  He  said  something 
of  the  same  kind  to  me.  I  fancy  I  make  too  much 
of  the  personal  part  of  it." 

"  He  was  right,"  said  Clara,  turning  away 
abruptly.  "  That  motive  is  a  great  quicksand  for 
swallowing  up  human  happiness." 

Something  in  this  talk  had  aroused  Madge's 
active  fancy  to  speculation,  for  she  said  thought 
fully,  on  their  homeward  drive, — 

"The  only  ideal  marriage  for  an  enthusiastic 
woman  doctor  would  be  a  professional  one,  of 
course  —  and  nothing  could  be  more  natural, 
either  ! " 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

LITTLE    TOM. 

There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 
But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ! 

LONGFELLOW. 

MORGAN,  I  wish  you  would  not  take  Tom 
out  with  you  when  you  drive  those  spirited 
horses.  They  need  all  your  attention  and  the  child 
is  too  young  to  be  left  to  himself.  The  least  lurch 
might  throw  him  out." 

"That  is  absurd,  my  dear  Gladys  ;  the  horses  are 
perfectly  well-trained.  Tom  is  no  baby,  and  I  en 
joy  having  him  with  me." 

"  But  it  makes  me  very  uneasy ;  I  would  much 
rather  not  have  him  go." 

"Oh!  as  you  please,"  said  Mr.  Amory  coldly, 
and  he  left  the  room  with  the  half-indifferent,  half- 
sullen  expression  which  was  the  nearest  approach 
to  anger  that  he  ever  showed. 

"  Tom  go  with  papa ! "  said  the  little  fellow, 
pressing  his  face  against  the  pane  and  looking  out 

220 


LITTLE    TOM.    •  221 

wistfully  at  the  horses  pawing  the  ground  in  front 
of  the  house. 

"  Not  to-day,  my  pet.  By  and  by,  when  Tom  is 
a  man  like  papa." 

The  sound  of  her  own  words  lingered  in  her 
ear  as  they  stood  watching  the  carriage  roll  away. 
"  A  man  like  papa  !  "  —would  Tom  ever  be  that  ? 
Would  the  little  loving,  eager  nature  ever  harden 
into  that  cold,  narrow  type  of  manhood  ?  "  God 
grant  he  never  may!  "  Gladys  pressed  her  lips  to 
her  darling's  golden  head,  and  half  shuddered  at 
her  own  silent  prayer.  She  bade  him  good-by  to 
day  with  even  more  caresses  than  usual ;  the  clasp 
of  the  little  clinging  arms  seemed  sweeter  than 
ever.  She  felt  them  still  as  she  was  driven  slowly 
out  over  the  Milldam  road,  where  the  bare  branches 
of  the  wind-bent  trees  were  beginning  to  show  the 
faint  yellowish  tinge  of  early  spring.  It  was  a 
mild,  April  day ;  the  sunbeams  fell,  bright  and 
warm,  on  the  miry  roads,  with  here  and  there  a 
lingering  patch  of  snow.  The  air  was  soft  and 
warm,  and  the  birds  sang  joyously  from  the  leaf 
less  branches  as  the  city  streets  were  left  behind. 
Gradually,  the  soreness  at  her  heart  died  away,  and 
nothing  was  left  but  the  sweetness  of  her  little 


222  LITTLE    TOM. 

child's  caress.  Oh,  the  blessing  of  motherhood  ! 
Life  cannot  be  otherwise  than  full  of  promise  to 
any  one  who  has  a  child's  future  before  her  !  Nor 
could  the  present  be  called  dark,  spite  of  its  limi 
tations  and  secret  disappointments.  There  was 
nothing  new  in  the  fact  that  husband  and  wife 
went  on  their  separate  ways.  So  long  as  Gladys 
satisfied  the  claims  which  he  held  due  to  society, 
her  husband  made  no  other  demands  on  her  time. 
She  was  welcome  to  fill  it  with  any  interests  she 
might  choose,  and,  under  the  ever-widening  in 
fluence  of  these  interests,  the  sweet  face  was  be 
ginning  to  lose  its  languor  and  to  regain  much  of 
its  girlish  brightness. 

Some  two  hours  later,  Doctor  Stephen  Forbes, 
reining  up  in  front  of  his  house,  found  a  man  wait 
ing  anxiously  for  him  on  the  sidewalk. 

"Don't  get  out,  sir,  please,"  he  said,  laying  a 
hand  on  the  dasher  of  the  buggy.  "  Come  as 
quick  as  ever  you  can,  for  Heaven's  sake,  to  Mr. 
Amory's  !  I  thought  you'd  never  get  back  !  " 

Stephen,  glancing  at  the  man's  face,  saw  that  it 
was  working  with  agitation.  He  took  him  in  and 
turned  the  buggy  without  another  word. 


LITTLE    TOM.  223 

"  Do  you  know  what  has  happened  ?  "  he  asked, 
at  last,  when  they  were  half-way  up  the  hill. 

"  I  can't  say,  sir —  it's  an  accident.  Mr.  Amory's 
horses  ran  away  and  —  you'll  see  !  " 

They  were  at  the  door  now,  and  the  man  sprang 
to  the  horse's  head,  as  if  afraid  of  being  asked 
more  questions.  The  doctor  hurried  in.  Strong 
man  as  he  was,  his  knees  trembled  under  him  with 
the  uncertainty  and  suspense,  and  the  quick  beat 
ing  of  his  own  heart.  An  accident?  —  which  was 
the  sufferer,  Morgan  Amory  or  his  wife  ? 

A  white-faced  figure  met  him  before  he  was  half 
way  up  the  stairs. 

"Thank  God,  you  are  come  at  last,  Forbes  ! " 

Stephen  scarcely  recognized  Morgan  Amory's 
voice  in  the  agonized  tones,  as  he  grasped  his 
strong  hand  with  fingers  that  trembled  convul 
sively. 

"Is  she  much  injured?-"  the  doctor  half-whis 
pered. 

"  She  ?  She  does  not  even  know  of  it.  Oh  Ste 
phen,  it's  my  boy  !  " 

They  stood  in  the  nursery  looking  down  at  the 
little  form,  stretched  half  on  the  bed,  half  across 
the  sobbing  nurse's  knee.  There  was  a  crimson 


224  LITTLE    TOM. 

gash  on  the  temple.     The  baby  hands  hung,  waxen 
and  lifeless,  from  the  woman's  lap. 

"What  can  you  do  for  him?"  gasped  the  poor 
father,  tightening  his  grasp  of  Stephen's  arm. 

"Do?"  exclaimed  the  doctor  in  a  choking  voice, 
"nothing!  My  poor  Amory,  what  can  I  do  ?  The 
child  is  dead  !  " 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  hall  below,  a  fresh,  sweet 
voice,  a  light,  springing  step  on  the  stair. 

"  She  is  come  back ! "  cried  the  wretched  hus 
band  in  a  voice  of  agony.     "  I  cannot  meet  her  — 
Stephen,  you  will  tell  her  for  me  !  " 

He  was  gone  from  the  room  before  Stephen  could 
utter  a  word,  and  he  heard  the  sound  of  the  key  as 
it  was  turned  in  the  lock. 

"  Lay  the  child  on  the  bed,"  said  the  doctor  to 
the  weeping  woman,  "  and  cover  his  face.  I  will 
go  and  meet  her.  Do  not  let  her  hear  you  sob  if 
you  can  help  it." 

He  spoke  so  quietly  that  the  woman's  agitation 
was  calmed  at  once,  and  she  followed  his  directions 
without  a  sound ;  but  in  his  own  heart  there  was  a 
deadly  anguish.  That  moment  when  he  stood  wait 
ing  for  Gladys  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  was  the  bit 
terest  of  his  life. 


LITTLE    TOM.  225 

She  came  up  with  the  same  light,  elastic  step. 
Would  she  never  reach  him  ?  Sne  glanced  up, 
smilingly,  at  the  tall  figure  on  the  landing. 

"  What,  you  have  been  looking  in  on  my  chicks 
in  my  absence,  Doctor?"  she  cried  gayly.  Then 
as  she  reached  his  side,  and  saw  the  deadly  pallor 
of  his  bronzed  face,  a  change  came  over  her  own, 
and  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  in  affectionate 
anxiety. 

"  What  has  happened  ?  My  friend,  you  are  ill ! 
Tell  me  what  I  can  do  for  you." 

"  For  me  ?  Oh  !  "  said  Stephen  in  a  choked  whis 
per,  "/can  do  nothing  for  you!  Poor  mother  — 
God  give  you  his  own  strength  and  comfort !  " 

She  did  not  say  a  word  at  first,  but  lay,  quite 
still  and  white,  in  the  strong  arms  that  upheld  her. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid.  I  shall  not  faint,"  she  said 
at  last,  lifting  her  head.  "  Tell  me  slowly  and 
clearly  what  has  happened." 

He  told  her,  as  calmly  as  he  could,  what  he  had 
learned  from  the  nurse's  sobbing  whispers,  and 
the  poor  father's  conscience-stricken  anguish.  He 
spoke  as  quietly  as  he  could,  but  his  breast  heaved 
with  the  emotion  he  struggled  to  repress,  and  the 
rare  man's  tears  welled  slowly  up  from  his  eyes. 


226  LITTLE    TOM. 

"  And  you  loved  my  little  Tom  so  much  ?  "  said 
Gladys  pitifully,  looking  at  him  with  a  tearless 
gaze.  "  God  bless  you  for  it !  Now  let  me  go  to 
him." 

"  One  moment,"  he  said  gently,  detaining  her. 
"  You  will  not  look  at  him  ? " 

"  I  will  do  anything  you  say,"  she  answered, 
speaking  in  a  hushed  voice  that  went  to  his  very 
heart.  "I  am  very  calm,  you  see.  You  shall  come 
with  me  if  you  wish." 

She  let  him  take  her  hand  and  lead  her  into  the 
room  from  which  all  had  stolen  away.  The  little 
figure  lay  on  the  bed,  the  face  covered,  and  the 
waxen  dimpled  hands  folded  on  the  breast. 

Gladys  knelt  beside  the  bed  and  kissed  the  little 
hands,  still  with  dry  eyes.  "  My  little  Tom !"  she 
said  softly.  "No,  Doctor,  you  need  not  fear  !  I  do 
not  need  to  see  his  face —  I  shall  never  lose  it  from 
before  my  eyes." 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  door  opening  on  the 
other  side  of  the  nursery.  Gladys  started. 

"  It  is  your  husband,"  said  Stephen,  looking  anx 
iously  at  her.  "Will  you  not  go  to  him  ?  " 

"My  husband?"  she  repeated  in  a  hard  voice, 
unlike  her  own.  "  And  he  came  back  for  the  child 


LITTLE    TOM.  22/ 

after  I  was  gone  !  Oh,  God  forgive  him !  I  never 
can."  She  hid  her  face  in  the  pillow  beside  which 
she  was  kneeling. 

Stephsn  stood  for  a  moment,  irresolute. 

"  Will  you  not  go  to  your  husband,  Mrs.  Amory  ? " 
he  asked  again,  bending  over  her,  "  I  feel  anxious 
about  him  and  I  must  go,  but  you  are  needed  quite 
as  much  as  I." 

"  Yes,  go,"  she  answered  coldly,  still  keeping 
her  face  averted.  "  Go,  but  do  not  ask  me  to 
come."  And  Stephen  went  sadly  away. 

There  are  no  secrets  in  such  hours  from  the 
physician  :  he  may  read  all  hearts  if  he  will,  and, 
if  his  own  be  a  tender  one,  he  pays  dearly  for  the 
bitter  privilege.  To  Stephen's  loyal,  deep-hearted 
nature,  the  alienation  between  husband  and  wife 
at  that  supreme  moment  of  grief  brought  a  crush 
ing  sense  of  misery  that  wrung  his  very  soul. 

It  was  easier  to  minister  to  Mr.  Amory's  sorrow 
than  to  Gladys'.  The  cold,  formal  man  was  quite 
broken  down  ;  he  wept  for  his  boy  in  a  passion  of 
grief  that  was  all  the  more  painful  to  witness  for 
the  remorse  mingled  with  it,  clinging  to  Stephen 
as  if  there  were  some  soothing  power  in  his  strong, 
friendly  arm.  The  doctor  did  not  leave  him  until 


228  LITTLE    TOM. 

he  had  dropped  into  an  uneasy  sleep,  worn  out  by 
the  violence  of  his  grief. 

Gladys  was  still  kneeling  where  he  had  left  her, 
her  face  buried  in  the  pillow.  Stephen  stood 
silently  beside  her,  his  heart  full  of  sympathy  which 
he  was  powerless  to  express.  Suddenly  a  thought 
came  to  him  and  he  left  the  room.  A  moment 
after,  Gladys  heard  a  faint  baby  murmur,  and,  look 
ing  up,  saw  little  Amy  in  the  doctor's  arms,  rub 
bing  her  soft  cheek  against  his,  and  cooing  her 
satisfaction  in  baby  fashion. 

She  held  out  her  arms  with  a  sudden  burst  of 
tears. 

"  Oh,  my  little  girl !  I  had  forgotten  her !  Give 
her  to  me  —  my  one  little  child  !  " 

Those  were  tears  that  Stephen  did  not  wish  to 
check.  He  stole  out  of  the  nursery  and  walked 
for  a  long  hour  up  and  down  the  hall,  waiting, 
though  for  what  he  hardly  knew. 

At  last  she  came  softly  out  and  laid  her  hand 
again  on  his  arm. 

"I  can  go  to  him  now,"  she  said  gently,  "and 
you  need  not  be  afraid  to  leave  me.  Thank  you, 
my  true-hearted  friend,  for  your  reminder." 

"I   spoke  for  your  own   sake,"    said    Stephen, 


LITTLE    TOM.  22Q 

under  his  breath.  He  went  silently  downstairs, 
feeling  that  there  was  no  more  need  for  his  pres 
ence. 

"Best  not  take  these  things  too  much  to  heart." 

The  old  doctor  had  been  silently  watching  his 
son,  who  sat  opposite  him  sunk  down  in  his  arm 
chair,  his  chin  on  his  breast,  wrapt  in  a  moody 
reverie,  and  so  abstracted  that  he  did  not  even 
know  he  was  silent.  They  were  sitting  together 
in  the  smoking-room  as  they  usually  did  for  a  cosey 
after-dinner  hour  of  chat,  perhaps  the  pleasantest 
time  in  the  day  to  both,  for  there  was  the  heartiest 
sympathy  and  affection  between  father  and  son 
with  enough  unlikeness  to  make  the  discussion  of 
the  day's  occupations  fresh  and  racy. 

Stephen  started,  pushing  back  his  heavy  hair 
from  his  forehead  with  a  gesture  habitual  to  him. 

"  If  one  begins  by  making  a  private  burden  of 
the  ills  of  humanity,"  said  the  doctor,  whose  tender 
old  heart  had  been  bleeding  for  Gladys  all  the 
evening,  "  we  doctors  should  be  buried  fathoms 
deep !  Who  knows  what  evils  that  child  may  have 
missed  by  having  his  pure  little  life  cut  short  so 
early  ! " 


23O  LITTLE    TOM. 

"No  doubt  —  that  is  one  way  of  looking  at  it,  of 
course.  But  the  other  side  is  one  at  which  I  can 
never  learn  to  look  coolly.  Only  an  accident !  A 
child  thrown  out  of  a  carriage  against  a  stone ! 
Call  it  an  accident — yes,  but  what  a  reckless, 
wanton  waste  of  life  !  " 

"Well,  my  boy,"  said  the  old  doctor,  throwing 
himself  back  in  his  chair  with  a  sigh,  "there  is  no 
way  of  getting  over  it  unless  you  take  to  Stoic 
philosophy.  I've  tried  that  myself  as  a  means  of 
self-defence  against  other  people's  troubles,  but 
I'm  afraid  you're  not  enough  of  a  humbug  for  it, 
and  I  can't  conscientiously  recommend  it  to  you, 
for,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  never  did  me  much  good." 

Stephen  smiled  absently,  and,  rising,  brought  a 
light  for  his  father's  cigar.  He  did  not  himself 
smoke  that  evening,  but  walked  thoughtfully  up 
and  down  the  room,  his  arms  behind  his  back  and 
a  heavy  cloud  on  his  brow.  He  looked  haggard 
and  overworked  as  his  father  had  never  before  seen 
him  ;  but,  when  the  office-bell  rang,  he  started  to 
the  door  as  if  it  were  a  welcome  sound. 

"  Stephen's  an  intense  sort  of  fellow,"  said  the 
old  doctor  when  he  was  left  to  himself.  "  That 
child's  loss  has  hit  him  in  a  tender  spot,  I  believe  !  " 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

DIVIDED. 

....     Soul  from  soul  estranged. 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 

MR.  AMORY  was  a  changed  man  after  his 
child's  death  ;  he  did  not,  indeed,  abandon 
any  of  his  old  pursuits,  and,  after  his  recovery  from 
the  fit  of  illness  and  prostration  that  followed  the 
terrible  shock,  appeared  in  his  old  haunts  wearing 
an  icy  mask  of  calmness,  and  never  mentioning 
Tom's  name.  But  he  looked  gray  and  worn  in  the 
face,  and  the  younger  generation  of  men  began  to 
say  that  "  Morgan  Amory  showed  his  age  at  last." 
With  Gladys  it  was  different  ;  it  seemed  as  if 
the  tender  thoughts  of  her  little  boy  had  softened 
away  the  unnatural  hardness  which  those  nearest 
her  had  noticed  after  the  first  year  of  her  married 
life,  and  had  restored  the  old,  loving  sweetness  of 
her  girlhood.  She  was  unspeakably  patient  and 
tender  with  her  husband,  though  he  shrank  notice- 

231 


232  DIVIDED. 

ably  in  her  presence,  seeming  to  dread  nothing  so 
much  as  the  possibility  of  her  mentioning  their 
boy.  Neither  could  he  bear  to  look  at  little  Amy, 
but  if  he  happened  to  come  in  when  she  was  in 
her  mother's  arms,  would  turn  abruptly  and  leave 
the  room  without  a  word. 

"  If  the  man  ever  had  a  heart,"  said  the  old 
doctor  testily,  "  it  is  framed  and  hung  up  in  the 
dining-room  with  his  family  pedigree  !  That  isn't 
grief  for  his  child  —  it  is  disappointment  in  the 
loss  of  his  heir  !  " 

Stephen  said  nothing,  but  was  seen  so  often  in 
public  with  Amory  that  it  excited  remark. 

When  summer  came,  Mr.  Amory  briefly  declared 
his  intention  of  going  abroad. 

"  I  do  not  care  if  I  never  see  the  place  at  Bar 
Harbor  again,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  "  but  you  had 
better  take  Amy  there,  Gladys." 

"  Would  you  rather  not  have  me  go  with  you  ?  " 
she  asked — the  tone,  indeed,  had  implied  it  very 
plainly.  "  It  would  not  be  best  to  take  Amy  with 
us,  of  course,  but  Mrs.  Stanhope  would  come  and 
take  care  of  her  for  me,  and  at  Bar  Harbor  she 
would  be  so  near  our  doctors  that  I  should  not 
trouble  you  with  nervousness  about  her." 


DIVIDED.  233 

"  It  is  quite  unnecessary  for  you  to  leave  her ; 
besides,  your  father  has  offered  to  go  with  me." 

"  Oh  !  my  dear,  I  am  glad  to  go  with  him,"  Mr. 
Lyman  said,  in  response  to  his  daughter's  thanks. 
"  I  would  willingly  do  more  for  you,  Gladys,  if  it 
were  in  my  power." 

He  looked  at  her  so  wistfully  as  he  spoke,  strok 
ing  her  rippled  golden  hair,  that  she  knew  he  was 
thinking  of  the  old  injustice  for  which  he  had  never 
ceased  to  reproach  himself  —  how  bitterly,  since 
he  had  observed  the  un congeniality  of  her  married 
life,  Gladys  would  never  know  ! 

"I  have  no  special  plans  for  the  summer,  and 
you  know  that  Morgan  and  I  have  many  interests 
in  common.     I  doubt  if  he  could  find  a  more  toler 
able  companion  if  he  must  have  any  one." 
"Must?"  repeated  Gladys  in  surprise. 
"  Yes  ;  it  would  be  most  unwise  for  him  to  go 
alone.     Since  Stephen  Forbes  discovered  his  ten 
dency  to  heart  trouble,  I  notice  he  always  has  his 
eye  on  him." 

Gladys  said  nothing  at  the  moment,  great  as 
the  shock  of  surprise  must  have  been, .not  wishing 
her  father  to  know  that  he  had  betrayed  what 
Stephen  had  chosen  to  keep  from  her,  but,  when 


234  DIVIDED. 

she  next  saw  the  latter,  she  spoke  of  it  very 
quietly. 

"  I  am  sorry  it  should  have  come  to  your  knowl 
edge,"  said  Stephen,  with  a  doctor's  annoyance 
over  needless  forecast  of  possibilities.  "  I  hoped 
it  never  might.  It  was  quite  uncalled-for." 

"  You  know  me  too  well  to  be  afraid  of  my  bor 
rowing  anxiety ;  and,"  she  added,  turning  away 
with  tearful  eyes,  "  it  will  make  me  doubly  grate 
ful  to  you  for  recalling  me  to  myself  on  that  dread 
ful  day." 

So  the  husband  and  wife  parted,  if  that  can  be 
called  separation  which  is  measured  by  space. 
There  are  some  pairs,  alas  !  who  are  no  nearer 
each  other  when  side  by  side  than  if  the  Atlantic 
rolled  between  ! 


"  At  Lausanne,  Switzerland,  3ist  ult,  suddenly,  Morgan  Amory 
of  Boston,  40  years." 

Anna  Lindesay  read  the  paragraph  aloud  at  the 
dinner-table,  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  the 
day  after  her  return  to  town  from  her  summer 
quarters. 

"  So  Gladys  is  a  widow,"  she  added,  throwing 


DIVIDED.  235 

down  the  paper,  and  looking  across  the  table  at  her 
husband,  who  showed  no  surprise,  "  and  I  suppose 
she  is  not  yet  twenty-five.  You  don't  show  the 
smallest  interest,  Raymond,  but  I  suppose  you 
knew  it  before." 

"Yes  ;  I  read  it  at  the  office." 

"  So  exactly  like  you  !  You  never  seem  to  think 
I  have  a  particle  of  sympathy  or  interest  in  other 
people's  sorrows  !  However,  this  can  hardly  be 
called  a  sorrow,  I  imagine.  A  young  and  beauti 
ful  widow  is  not  usually  long  inconsolable,  espe 
cially  if  her  widowhood  leaves  her  in  such  com 
fortable  circumstances  as  this  bereavement  un 
doubtedly  does." 

"  The  property  does  not  go  to  Mrs.  Amory,  but 
to  the  child,"  said  Raymond  laconically. 

"  Why,  how  do  you  know  ?  Oh,  from  the  will, 
of  course !  I  suppose  it  was  altered  when  Mr. 
Amory  went  abroad.  But  I  wonder  at  that !  Isa 
bel  says  that  after  the  little  boy  died,  the  father 
could  never  bear  the  sight  of  the  other  child." 

"  Isabel  abuses  Mrs.  Amory's  kindness  to  her 
and  her  intimacy  in  the  household,"  said  Lindesay, 
knitting  his  brows,  "  or  you  take  undue  advantage 
of  her  love  of  talking,  Anna.  I  thought  I  had 


236  DIVIDED. 

requested  you  before  never  to  question  her  on  the 
subject." 

"The  Amorys'  domestic  affairs  are  no  secret," 
retorted  Anna  angrily;  "but  you  can  never  bear 
the  least  word  in  disparagement  of  that  goddess, 
Raymond !  " 

"  I  have  not  the  least  desire  to  hear  her  men 
tioned  in  any  way  whatever,  my  dear  Anna." 

"  I  never  shall  understand  why,  if  you  admired 
her  so  much,  you  did  not  take  advantage  of  her 
evident  partiality  for  you  when  she  was  a  girl  at 
Bar  Harbor,"  pursued  Anna  unheedingly.  "  I  never 
saw  anything  more  apparent  in  my  life  !  Whatever 
she  may  have  married  Morgan  Amory  for,  it  cer 
tainly  was  not  for  love." 

"  Expediency  is  the  moving  spring  in  more  mar 
riages  than  is  usually  supposed,"  was  his  reply. 

The  color  flushed  into  Anna's  cheek,  but  as  she 
glanced  sharply  across  the  table  her  husband's  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  paper  she  had  dropped,  and  she 
wisely  left  the  repartee  on  her  tongue  unspoken. 

"  This  can  hardly  be  called  a  sorrow  for  Gladys," 
Anna  had  said  in  her  half-sneering  tone.  Not  as 
sorrows  are  usually  reckoned,  certainly  ;  yet,  viewed 
in  another  light,  it  was  the  crown  of  sorrows. 


DIVIDED.  237 

"If  I  had  only  — "  Gladys  whispered,  as  if  un 
consciously,  the  first  time  Stephen  saw  her  after 
the  tidings  of  Mr.  Amory's  death. 

"Only  —  what?"  he  repeated  gently,  bending 
forward  to  catch  the  half-uttered  words. 

"  If  I  had  only  loved  him !  "  she  said  with  a 
groan.  "  You  cannot  understand  that  feeling,  my 
friend,  but  —  " 

"  Believe  me,  I  perfectly  understand,"  the  doctor 
said,  very  earnestly, 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A    FRIEND    IX    NEED. 

The  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land. 

ISAIAH  xxxii.  2. 

NO,  my  dear  Siren,  you  must  not  try  to  tempt 
me  away.  I  would  gladly  come  to  you  for 
a  rest  if  I  went  to  any  one,  but,  in  the  first  place, 
I  don't  need  any,  and  if  I  did,  my  rest  is  in  work 
ing  here.  However,  I  thank  you  for  wishing  it." 

And  Dr.  Martyn  put  her  arm  round  Gladys' 
waist,  kissing  her  with  affectionate  warmth  for 
which  one  would  hardly  have  looked  in  the  cool, 
business-like  little  doctor,  whose  demonstrative- 
ness,  like  her  nerves,  might  have  been  supposed 
under  entire  control. 

"  Yes,  I  know  what  you  would  say  - 

"  Rest  is  not  quitting  the  busy  career, 
Rest  is  the  fitting  of  self  to  its  sphere !  " 

said  Gladys,  "and  I  have  not  the  least  wish  to  urge 
you  to  neglect  your  duties,  Clara.      But  you   do 

238 


A    FRIEND    IN    NEED.  239 

really  overwork  sometimes.  You  are  quite  losing 
your  color,  I  notice  lately.  I  have  often  heard  you 
say  that  you  had  the  utmost  confidence  in  Miss 
Smith's  judgment." 

"  No  nurse  can  take  the  place  of  a  physician," 
said  Clara  promptly.  "The  nurse  may  be  hands, 
or  even  head  in  rare  instances,  but  it's  an  affair  of 
the  heart  with  the  doctor,  Gladys." 

"Very  true,  but  Dr.  Stephen  is  there  so  con 
stantly  that  you  could  hardly  be  missed  if,  for  a 
fortnight,  you  should  not  sleep  under  the  roof. 
Come  to  me  for  that  time,  and  then,  if  all  goes 
well,  let  me  take  you  away  for  a  little  change  of  air 
and  scene,  and  you  will  return  quite  another  being. 
It  is  a  duty  that  you  owe  to  yourself,  Clara." 

"No,  my  dear,"  said  her  friend  firmly,  "don't 
urge  it.  I  shall  not  leave  the  hospital  unless  for 
very  pressing  needs,  until  I  go  for  good,  and  just 
now  I  should  be  very  unwilling  to  lay  the  whole 
burden  of  responsibility  on  Dr.  Stephen.  I  must 
learn  to  do  without  his  advice  for  a  season,  and 
leaving  all  to  him  would  be  a  poor  beginning." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  exclaimed  Gladys, 
with  a  sudden  change  of  expression.  "  'Do  with 
out  him  '  — how  ?  " 


24O  A    FRIEND    IN    NEED. 

Her  friend  looked  at  her  earnestly  for  a  moment. 

J 

"  I  mean  only  that  he  is  going  abroad  again  in 
a  few  weeks.  Did  you  not  know  it  ?  "  she  asked 
quietly. 

"  No,"  said  Gladys,  the  startled  color  returning 
to  her  cheek.  "  I  should  hardly  have  supposed  he 
would  leave  his  father  again." 

"  Oh  !  the  old  doctor  is  anxious  to  have  him  go. 
He  is  quite  well  himself  now,  he  says,  and  Stephen 
needs  rest  and  change.  It  may  be  only  for  a 
time." 

"  How  inconsistent  you  are,  Dr.  Martyn  !  "  said 
Gladys,  with  a  touch  of  playfulness.  "  A  moment 
ago  you  were  advocating  steady  work  as  the  only 
rest  for  doctors  !  " 

"  I  was  speaking  only  for  myself." 

"  And  I  think  Dr.  Stephen  looks  better  able 
to  bear  a  long  strain  than  you." 

"  Temperaments  are  different,"  Clara  replied. 
"  He  puts  far  more  nerve-force  into  his  work  than 
I,  and  so  feels  the  strain  more.  That  is  what  we 
must  judge  power  of  endurance  by,  rather  than 
bone  and  muscle.  He  is  a  much  more  intense 
person  than  I." 

Gladys  said  nothing,  but  probably  Pr.   Martyn 


A    FRIEND    IN    NEED.  24! 

was  answering  a  look  in  her  face  when  she  said 
quickly,  "  I  know  him  better  than  you  do,  Gladys." 

"  You  have  known  him  longer,  certainly,"  Gladys 
replied.  "  But  it  seems  to  me  impossible  "  —  She 
checked  herself  and  left  the  sentence  unfinished, 
but  Clara  saw  by  the  lingering  twilight  of  the 
early  spring  that  the  tears  had  risen  in  her  brown 
eyes. 

She  was  sitting  alone  in  the  parlor  that  evening, 
after  her  good-night  visit  to  Amy's  nursery.  The 
lamp,  over  the  globe  of  which  a  crimson  paper 
shade  had  been  thrown,  shed  a  faint  rosy  light 
through  the  room,  but  Gladys  was  sitting  at  a  dis 
tance  from  it,  her  hands  lying  idly  in  her  lap.  A 
sweet  spring  fragrance  of  violets,  stealing  in  from 
the  little  conservatory,  filled  the  air,  a  dim  atmos 
phere  of  warmth  and  luxuriance  in  which  Stephen 
Forbes,  as  he  entered,  could  scarcely  see  the 
graceful  head  drooping  against  the  cushions  of  the 
deep  arm-chair  in  which  she  sat. 

"  Is  that  you,  Dr.  Stephen  ?  "  she  asked,  rising. 
"  I  was  just  thinking  of  you." 

Stephen  fancied  a  sound  of  tears  in  her  voice, 
but  her  face  was  only  dimly  visible  in  the  half 
light.  "  Let  us  sit  here,"  she  said,  detaining  his 


242  A    FRIEND    IN*    NEED. 

hand  a  moment  in  her  soft  clasp,  "  unless  you  dis 
like  the  dimness  ? " 

"  Not  at  all  for  myself,  though  I  hope  you  do 
not  often  indulge  in  it  when  you  are  alone." 

"  Dr.  Martyn  tells  me,"  she  began  abruptly, 
"  that  you  are  going  away." 

"  Yes,"  said  Stephen,  with  a  half-sigh,  "  but  for 
a  time  only,  I  trust.  It  seems  best  for  several  rea 
sons,  now  that  I  have  no  further  uneasiness  on  my 
father's  account." 

"  I  hope  you  have  not  been  overworking  ?  " 

"  No,  oh  no  !  I  do  not  go  for  any  reason  of  that 
kind."  Stephen  spoke  in  a  laconic  fashion,  habit 
ual  to  him  when  anything  was  pressing  on  his  mind. 

"  You  must  not  feel  any  anxiety  about  Amy  in 
my  absence,"  he  added,  rousing  himself  and  bend 
ing  forward.  "  She  is  perfectly  well  now,  and  my 
father  will  watch  her  as  carefully  as  I  should." 

Gladys  was  silent. 

"  You  know  he  has  even  a  prior  claim  to  that 
little  patient  of  mine,"  said  the  doctor,  wondering 
that  she  did  not  speak. 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  very  selfish,"  she  burst  out 
suddenly,  "  but,  indeed,  I  feel  as  if  I  could  not 
spare  you." 


A    FRIEND    IN    NEED.  243 

"  I  have  been  so  glad  to  serve  you,"  he  replied  in 
a  low  tone. 

"  Ah,  it  has  been  no  common  service  !  When  I 
look  back  on  this  year  of  my  life,  I  often  ask  my 
self  what  I  should  have  done  without  you.  How 
often  I  have  thanked  you  in  my  heart  for  your 
silent  sympathy  !  Oh  !  there  are  times  in  our  lives 
when  nothing  but  the  help  and  support  of  a  strong, 
wise  friend  can  save  us  from  despair,  and  you  have 
been  that  tower  of  strength  to  me  !  " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Stephen,  still  in  the  same 
deep  tone. 

"  I  do  not  speak  of  your  saving  my  little 
Amy,  though  I  cannot  yet  look  back  on  those 
dreadful  days  and  long  winter  nights  of  anxiety 
without  shuddering  —  I  am  speaking  of  myself  and 
my  own  reliance  on  you.  You  know  my  old  feel 
ing  of  affection  and  confidence  towards  your  father, 
so  you  will  think  it  no  treason  to  him,  but,  Dr. 
Stephen,  I  have  come  to  depend  on  you.  You 
have  been  with  me  in  all  my  troubles,  and  when 
I  think  of  another  alarm  of  diphtheria  without  you 
to  look  to  —  " 

"  You  are  borrowing  trouble  now,"  said  Stephen, 
gently  checking  her. 


244  A    FRIEND    IN    NEED. 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  must  often  hear  such  forebod 
ings.  A  doctor  who  has  saved  the  life  of  a  child 
is  no  common  friend  to  the  mother,  but  it  was  my 
little  Tom's  love  for  you  that  first  made  me  — 

She  could  say  no  more  for  her  tears,  but  pressed 
the  strong,  tender  hand  that  rested  on  the  arm  of 
her  chair. 

Stephen  rose  and  stood  beside  her,  looking  down 
upon  her  from  his  full  height  with  a  strangely- 
moved  expression.  Then  he  stooped  and  said  : 

"  Can  I  really  have  been  so  much  to  you  ?  " 

"  Not  to  me  alone,  I  suppose,"  said  Gladys,  smil 
ing  through  her  tears,  "  but  I  am  trying  to  excuse 
myself  in  your  eyes  for  my  selfishness.  It  is  utter 
selfishness,  of  course,  to  depend  so  much  on 
another.  Sooner  or  later  one  must  bear  the  bur 
den  of  one's  griefs  and  anxieties  alone." 

"  Not  if  you  will  let  me  always  share  them  with 
you." 

The  doctor's  deep  tones  trembled,  and  Gladys, 
looking  up  in  surprise  at  the  unusual  break  in  his 
voice,  met  his  earnest  eyes  fixed  upon  her  with  a 
new  expression.  She  half-rose,  with  a  sudden 
premonition  of  what  was  coming,  but  he  went  on, 
quickly, — 


A    FRIEND    IN    NEED.  245 

"  For  I  will  not  go  if  you  tell  me  to  stay.  You 
speak  of  what  I  have  done  for  you  —  I  trust  that 
would  have  been  the  same  for  any  one,  but  you  — 
surely  you  must  know  how  dear  all  that  concerns 
you  is  to  me !  I  thought  of  going  only  because  I 
did  not  feel  that  I  could  be  near  you  longer  and 
remain  silent.  Now  I  have  spoken.  Do  you  think 

—  do  you  mean  that  you  can  really  trust  yourself 
to  me  ? " 

Gladys  looked  up  for  a  moment  into  the  face 
above  her,  every  line  of  which  was  softened  with 
the  yearning  tenderness  that  thrilled  in  his  voice, 
and  spoke  from  the  very  attitude  of  the  tall  figure, 
as  he  bent  towards  her.  She  met  the  eyes  for  a 
moment  of  sorrowful  surprise,  then  covered  her 
face  silently  with  her  hands. 

There  was  a  moment's  stillness  in  the  room  ;  it 
seemed  an  hour.  Then  the  hand  whose  touch  she 
knew  so  well  was  laid  on  hers,  as  they  covered 
her  face,  and  the  doctor  said  gently,  in  almost  his 
usual  tone, 

"  My  dear,  you  need  not  speak.     I  see  how  it  is 

—  the  fault  was  mine.     Believe  me,  I  came  with 
no  thought  of  saying  to  you  what  was  in  my  heart, 
and,  though  your  sweet  reliance  on  me  has  drawn 


246  A    FRIEND    IN    NEED. 

it  from  me  sooner  than  I  meant,  I  am  the  only 
one  to  blame  in  the  matter.  Do  not  grieve  about 
it,  and  be  sure  you  do  not  lose  the  friend  whom 
you  have  valued,  because  he  has  told  you  that  you 
have  been  to  him  dearer  than  a  friend  !  " 

He  pressed  his  hand  again  upon  her  clasped 
hands,  and  then  she  heard  his  firm  step  going  to 
wards  the  door. 

"Oh  !  "  she  cried,  starting  to  her  feet,  "do  not 
go  yet !  You  do  not  understand  —  stay  a  few  mo 
ments  and  let  me  tell  you." 

"Better  not  now  —  it  is  late.  Good-night,"  and 
he  turned  back  at  the  door  with  just  the  old 
kindly  smile  and  nod.  Gladys,  left  alone,  remained 
for  a  while  with  her  head  bowed  on  her  hands.  It 
had  been  an  utter  shock  to  her. 

In  her  mind  she  went  back  to  the  clays  before 
Stephen's  first  coming.  She  felt  again  the  cold 
chill  that  had  gradually  settled  down  upon  her  in 
the  first  year  of  her  married  life,  as  she  came  to 
realize  that  she  and  her  husband  could  never  be 
more  to  each  other  than  they  were  — -  nay,  that  in 
spite  of  every  effort  she  might  make,  they  were 
drifting  wider  and  wider  apart.  She  remembered 
the  pang  of  disappointment  it  had  given  her  to 


A    FRIEXD    IN    NEED.  247 

think  that  the  father,  whom  she  had  almost  wor 
shipped,  should  have  been  guilty  of  any  conceal 
ment  or  deceit  towards  her.  The  old  trust  could 
never  return,  however  deep  the  filial  tenderness 
might  be.  She  remembered  the  feeling  with  which 
she  had  asked  herself,  as  day  after  day  passed  by, 
filled  with  nothing  deeper  than  ease  and  surface 
enjoyment,  "Can  this  be  all  of  life?"  She  re 
membered  the  struggle  she  had  made  to  fill  her 
own  life  with  something  more  serious,  the  bitter 
feeling  that,  in  that  effort,  she  would  be  quite  with 
out  sympathy.  It  was  no  wonder  if  a  shade  of 
morbidness  had  fallen  upon  her  and  mingled  even 
with  her  passionate  affection  for  her  children.  She 
had  needed  a  sunny,  Denial  nature  and  a  friendly 
hand  to  help  her  out  of  the  slough  into  which  she 
was  falling,  and  that  aid  had  come  from  Stephen 
Forbes.  She  had  felt  instinctively,  from  the  day 
when  they  had  met  in  her  studio,  that  he  understood 
her  and  her  efforts,  that  he  divined,  oh  !  very  much 
that  must  be  forever  unspoken  even  to  the  closest 
household  friend.  How  wisely  he  had  helped  her 
and  drawn  her  out  of  herself!  How  he  had  grieved 
in  her  great  sorrow,  and  yet,  even  at  that  moment, 
shielded  her  from  the  danger  of  self-reproach ! 


248  A    FRIEND    IN    NEED. 

How  her  boy  had  loved  him,  and  how  he  had 
labored  with  almost  superhuman  skill  to  save  her 
little  girl!  That  he  was  her  devoted  friend,  that 
she  relied  upon  him  with  a  trust  and  faith  she  gave 
to  no  other  human  being,  she  knew,  but  that  he 
should  love  her  was  a  thing  she  had  never  dreamed 
of,  and  that  she  should  love  him — seemed  an  im 
possibility.  Love,  she  knew  it  well,  was  like  a 
mighty  tempest,  seizing  on  the  heart  by  storm, 
shaking  the  whole  being  to  its  inmost  depths.  No 
less  a  love  than  that  should  be  given  to  Stephen 
Forbes. 

She  rose  at  last  from  her  chair,  shaking  off  her 
reverie,  drew  her  desk  to  the  light  and  began  to 

write  the  letter  which  rea'ched  Stephen  in  the 
morning. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND: 

You  left  me  so  quickly  this  evening  that  I  could  not  say  to  you 
what  I  wished,  and  I  cannot  allow  it  to  remain  unsaid.  That  you 
surprised  me  beyond  expression  I  need  not  tell  you,  but  that  you 
should  blame  yourself  for  what  you  said  to  me  would  make  me 
very  unhappy. 

Dear  Dr.  Stephen,  if  reverence  and  trust  and  friendship  more 
deep  and  tender  than  I  can  put  into  words,  were  love,  my  whole 
heart  would  be  yours.  But  that  is  not  love.  Love  comes,  we  do 
not  know_  how  or  why,  at  once  and  unmistakably;  it  is  something 
we  cannot  reason  about,  and  that  does  not  wait  to  be  discovered. 
But  nothing  else  can  be  a  substitute,  and  to  fancy  that  it  can  is  a 
sore  .mistake. 


A    FRIEND    IN    NEED.  249 

I  can  have  no  secrets  from  you,  dear  friend ;  I  owe  you  the  full 
est  and  deepest  confidence.  Such  a  mistake,  you  know,  I  once 
made,  and  such  a  love  I  think  I  once  knew.  That  no  trace  of  it 
now  remains  does  not  alter  the  case.  It  showed  me,  at  least,  of 
what  my  heart  was  capable,  and  I  would  never  be  guilty  of  offer 
ing  you  less  than  my  uttermost. 

I  need  not  remind  you  of  your  promise  that  this  should  make 
no  difference  in  the  friendship  which  is  my  greatest  happiness. 
You  are  too  noble  and  unselfish  for  such  a  possibility  to  exist. 

Most  truly  your  friend, 

GLADYS  AMORY. 

Stephen's  reply  came  at  once.  The  clear,  strong 
handwriting  was  so  like  him  : 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND: 

I  thank  you  for  your  confidence.  Love  comes  to  us  in  all 
ways,  whether  late  or  early  in  life,  whether  by  storm  or  by  gradual 
revelation  matters  little  so  that  it  be  pure  and  unselfish.  I  trust 
that  mine  is  so,  and  God  forbid  that  it  should  be  the  means  of 
your  losing  any  help  or  support  which  it  has  been  my  blessing  and 

privilege  to  afford  you. 

Your  friend, 

STEPHEN  FORBES. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

ONE    WAY    OF    LOVE. 

If  there  be  any  one  can  take  my  place 

And  make  you  happy  whom  I  grieve  to  grieve, 
Think  not  that  I  can  grudge  it,  but  believe 
I  do  commend  you  to  that  nobler  grace, 
That  readier  wit  than  mine,  that  sweeter  face. 

CHRISTINA  G.  ROSSETTI. 

THERE  was  to  be  a  consultation  at  Dr.  Mar- 
tyn's  hospital,  in  which  Dr.  Stephen  was 
senior  physician.  The  case  was  that  of  a  poor 
girl  whose  chance  for  life  depended  solely  on  the 
success  of  an  operation,  so  difficult  and  dangerous 
that  to  hazard  it  seemed  almost  more  than  the 
hair-breadth  chance  would  justify.  But  Dr.  Mar- 
tyn  was  very  sanguine  ;  with  her,  the  hope  of  life 
seemed  to  mean  everything. 

The  group  had  closed  about  the  bed  on  which 
the  poor,  unconscious  form  was  lying ;  the  other 
doctors,  young  men  of  more  or  less  experience, 
had  said  their  word  for  or  against  the  trial.  Ste 
phen  was  bending  over  the  pillovf,  while  the  other 

250 


ONE    WAY    OF    LOVE.  25! 

men  followed  his  movements  with  intensity  of 
interest  varying  according  to  the  temperament  of 
each.  Clara  fixed  her  eyes,  sparkling  with  eager 
ness,  on  his  face,  and  while  the  color  mounted  to 
her  cheek,  she  watched  him  as  breathlessly  as  if 
her  life,  not  that  of  her  poor  patient,  depended  on 
his  fiat.  He  moved  slowly  and  deliberately,  his 
grave,  intent  expression  losing  nothing  of  its  com 
posure  under  the  eager  eyes.  Finally,  he  gave  a 
long,  pitiful  look  at  the  waxen  face,  the  eyelids 
sunken  and  blue-circled  in  the  ether  sleep,  and 
straightened  himself  with  an  unconscious  sigh  : 
"I  say,  No." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  voices  such  as  usually 
follows  a  breathless  pause,  but,  while  Stephen  gave 
his  reasons  in  clear,  decided  response  to  the  ques 
tions  or  remarks  of  the  others,  Clara  said  not  a 
word.  She  was  bitterly  disappointed  ;  the  more 
that  she  had  felt  so  sure  that  his  counsel  would 
be  to  try  in  spite  of  the  fearful  odds.  It  was  not 
until  the  group  about  the  bed  was  dispersing  that 
she  found  voice  to  say  apart  to  Stephen,— 

"May  I  speak  a  word  with  you  before  you  go?" 
"Certainly  ;  I  will  wait  for  you  downstairs." 
It  was  some  minutes  before  she  was  at  leisure 


252  ONE    WAY    OF    LOVE. 

to  follow  him  into  the  little  room  which  she  called 
her  "den,"  —  a  tiny  sanctum  where  the  busy  brain 
and  hands  and  the  much-taxed  sympathies  occa 
sionally  found  a  brief  lull  of  repose.  In  spite  of 
its  tininess  it  was  a  pretty  little  nook ;  the  only 
spot  in  the  hospital  that  bore  the  impress  of  the 
woman's  individual  tastes.  Here  stood  her  Daven 
port  desk  and  her  favorite  books,  and,  since  Gladys 
had  made  the  hospital  one  of  her  haunts,  many 
little  added  touches  of  luxury  had  crept  into  it. 
Curtains  of  a  shade  in  harmony  with  the  carpet 
draped  the  window,  an  embroidered  fire-screen 
stood  in  the  corner,  several  fine  engravings  had 
made  their  appearance  on  the  walls,  and,  as  to-day, 
flowers  often  adorned  the  table. 

As  Clara  crossed  the  hall  and  stood  at  the  door, 
the  doctor,  looking  out  of  all  proportion  with  his 
surroundings,  was  bending  over  the  vase  which 
Gladys  had  filled  that  morning  with  fresh  violets. 
At  the  sound  of  her  step  he  turned  quickly,  and 
came  towards  her,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  I  disappointed  you,"  he  said  at  once,  meeting 
her  eyes  with  his  friendly  gaze. 

"  Yes,"  said  Clara  frankly. 

"  I  am  sorry,  but,  my  dear  Doctor,  it  was  un 


ONE    WAY    OF    LOVE.  2 53 

avoidable.  "  The  girl  would  almost  surely  not  have 
lived." 

"She  will  surely  die  now,"  Dr.  Martyn  replied. 
"  The  operation  might  have  given  her  a  bare 
chance  for  life." 

"  I  cannot  think  we  should  have  been  justified 
in  making  the  trial,"  said  Stephen  firmly. 

Clara  was  silent,  but  there  was  a  tremulous 
movement  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth  as  if 
something  that  rose  to  her  lips  remained  unsaid. 

"  You  are  not  satisfied,  I  see,"  said  Stephen, 
looking  earnestly  at  her.  "  What  is  it,  Dr.  Martyn  ? 
You  usually  have  confidence  in  my  judgment." 

"  I  have  indeed,"  said  Clara,  averting  her  eyes. 

"  Then  why  not  now  ?  " 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  say  frankly  why  I  am  dis* 
satisfied  ? " 

"  Surely  I  do." 

"Then  I  will  tell  you,"  said  the  little  woman, 
lifting  her  eyes  bravely  to  the  face  so  far  above 
hers ;  "  I  did  not  feel  that  that  decision  was 
spoken  quite  in  your  usual  tone  of  mind.  You 
were  not'quite  yourself.  If  you  had  been,  I  think 
you  would  have  agreed  with  me  in  taking  the  riskt 
though  I  grant  you  it  was  a  fearful  one." 


254  °XE    WAY    OF    LOVE. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  quite  understand  you.  In 
what  way  am  I  not  myself  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  putting  more  of  a  strain  upon 
yourself  than  you  are  able  to  bear.  You  think 
because  your  shoulders  have  always  carried  easily 
so  much  of  others'  burdens,  that  this  one  added 
touch  will  not  matter.  You  do  not  show  it  out 
wardly  —  you  think  you  do  not  feel  it,  but  —  but 
under  that  pressure,  you  do  not  look  at  things  so 
hopefully  and  brightly  as  you  used.  It  is  inevi 
table  that  it  should  be  so." 

Dr.  Stephen  made  a  turn  about  the  tiny  room. 

"  Can  that  be  true  ?  "  he  cried.  He  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  thoughtfully  down  at  her,  then 
said  very  quietly,  "  At  least  I  understand  you." 

"  And  I  have  not  offended  you  ?  "  For  the  first 
time  she  failed  to  meet  his  eyes  with  her  clear, 
fearless  gaze.  He  gave  her  small  hand  a  hearty 
pressure. 

"  That,  I  think,  would  be  impossible.  So  far 
from  it  that  I  thank  you  for  your  friendly  warning. 
Moreover,  I  believe  you  are  right." 

"  I  am  sure  that  I  am,"  she  answered*  calmly. 
"  What  do  you  propose  to  do  ?  " 

"  That  I  cannot  tell  as  yet.     For  the  present  I 


ONE    WAY    OF    LOVE.  255 

shall  keep  your  admonition  in  mind.    Good-night  f  " 

"  Would  you  be  willing  to  trust  a  great  deal  to 
me?"  said  Dr.  Martyn,  too  preoccupied  with  her 
own  thoughts  to  heed  the  good-night. 

"  Assuredly  I  should  !  I  have  no  possible  rea 
son  for  thinking  that  you  are  not  yourself."  He 
said  it  smilingly. 

"  Oh  !  don't  jest  about  it,"  she  cried,  as  if  the 
tone  had  given  her  pain.  "  Indeed,  I  was  not 
speaking  in  that  way  !  " 

They  parted  like  trusted  friends  and  comrades, 
but,  as  the  door  closed  upon  Stephen,  the  little 
doctor  rested  her  arms  on  her  desk,  pillowed  her 
head  on  her  arms,  and  sat  so  for  a  long  time,  with 
her  face  hidden.  Could  it  have  been  for  a  woman's 
reason  that,  when  she  did  raise  her  head,  her  eyes 
looked  less  clear  and  bright  than  usual  ? 

One  of  the  nurses  who  came  to  the  door,  stood 
looking  in  at  her  in  surprise  for  a  moment,  then 
stole  noiselessly  away. 

"  The  doctor's  all  struck  up  about  poor  Harriet," 
she  confided  to  one  of  the  other  attendants  ;  "  I 
don't  think  I  ever  knew  her  to  feel  so  bad." 

The  next  day  a  note  came  to  Dr.  Stephen  from 
Mrs.  Amory  : 


256  ONE    WAY    OF    LOVE. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND: 

I  wish  to  ask  your  advice  about  a  plan  which  has  been  proposed 
to  me  for  the  summer.  Dr.  Martyn  has  generously  offered  to  go 
away  with  me,  putting  aside  her  own  wish  of  remaining  at  the  hospi 
tal.  I  think  it  will  be  better  for  herself,  of  course,  but  it  is  entirely 
for  my  sake  that  she  goes.  You  will  see  that  this  plan  quite  relieves 
me  from  the  anxiety  of  which  I  spoke  to  you,  and  I  shall  only  ask 
you  to  recommend  to  us  some  quiet  mountain  place  where  \ve  can 
be  by  ourselves,  and  be  sure  of  finding  pure  dry  air  for  Amy. 

I  am  the  more  glad  of  this  arrangement  because  it  gives  me  the 
opportunity  of  begging  you  to  follow  out  the  plan  you  had  formed 
for  yourself  when  I  selfishly  asked  you  to  stay  on  my  account.  I 
am  ashamed  of  myself.  I  had  no  right  to  burden  with  my  cares 
one  who  owes  so  much  of  his  time  and  thought  to  others,  and  who 
spares  so  little  for  himself.  Will  you  forget  the  request,  though 
not  the  feeling  of  deep  trust  and  confidence  that  prompted  it,  and 
forgive  your  friend,  GLADYS  AMORY? 

The  key  to  this  note  was  an  interview  between 
Mrs.  Amory  and  her  friend,  Clara  Martyn,  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  consultation  at  the  hospital. 

She  came  in  hurriedly,  as  she  sometimes  did  at 
the  close  of  her  busy  days,  looking  so  fagged  and 
overworked  that  Gladys  was  full  of  affectionate 
solicitude  in  her  welcome. 

"  No,  don't  pet  me  ! "  said  the  little  doctor 
brusquely,  turning  away  her  head.  "  I  don't  feel 
amiable  this  afternoon  !  " 

"  You  may  be  as  unamiable  here  as  you  like," 
said  her  friend,  putting  a  cushion  behind  her  head, 
taking  off  her  hat,  and  passing  her  cool  hand  over 


ONE    WAY    OF    LOVE.  257 

the  tired  brow.  "  It  will  only  confirm  me  in  my 
belief  that  you  need  rest  and  change.  But  I  for 
get  that  that  is  a  sealed  subject  !  " 

"  Would  you  like  to  have  me  go  away  with  you 
for  the  summer  ?  "  asked  Clara  abruptly. 

Gladys  opened  her  eyes  in  amused  surprise. 

"  Would  I  like  it  ?  Is  not  that  the  very  thing 
that  I  have  been  urging,  and  you  persistently  re 
fusing  ?  But  for  the  whole  summer  !  I  had  not 
asked  so  much  as  that.  I  could  not  let  you  make 
such  a  sacrifice  of  your  wishes  for  me." 

"  I  could  arrange  it.  An  opportunity  has  offered 
for  leaving  my  work  in  efficient  hands,  and  I  have 
other  plans  for  myself  in  the  autumn.  No,  don't 
thank  me  too  much  !  "  as  Gladys,  disturbed  by  her 
unusual  manner,  knelt  beside  her  chair.  "  There 
is  no  occasion  —  I  don't  do  it  wholly  on  your  ac 
count !  There,  don't  look  at  me  in  that  way  — 
you  are  a  sweet,  beautiful  creature,  Gladys,  but 
you  are  as  cold  as  a  stone  !  " 

"  I  ?  "  cried  Gladys.  Her  face  had  grown  quite 
pale,  and  she  drew  back  from  the  arm-chair  beside 
which  she  still  knelt.  "  What  do  you  mean,  Clara  ? 
I  scarcely  know  what  to  make  of  you  this  after 
noon  !  " 


258  ONE    WAY    OF    LOVE. 

"  You  speak  of  my  making  sacrifices  !  "  cried 
Dr.  Martyn,  who  seemed,  indeed,  in  the  rare  fit  of 
anger  which  had  so  incomprehensibly  seized  upon 
her,  a  wholly  different  being,  "and  you  surfer 
others  to  make  them  —  without  knowing — with 
out  giving  it  a  thought !  " 

The  color  rushed  back  in  a  crimson  tide  over 
Gladys'  pale  face. 

"  You  make  strange  accusations  against  me  to 
day,"  she  said  very  quietly;  "of  whom  are  you 
speaking,  Clara  ?  " 

"  What !  "  said  her  friend,  still  at  white  heat  of 
passion,  "  do  you  not  know  that  Stephen  Forbes 
is  staying  here  solely  because  you  told  him  that 
you  could  not  spare  him  ?  " 

"I  —  I  told  him  that  I  scarcely  felt  as  if  I  could 
spare  him,  certainly.  But  he  said  there  was  now 
no  reason  for  his  going." 

The  conscious  color  had  not  left  Gladys' 
cheek  ;  her  head  drooped  a  little  under  her  friend's 
indignant  eyes. 

"And  that  is  a  woman's  idea  of  friendship!" 
cried  Dr.  Martyn  bitterly.  "  That  is  a  woman's 
generosity  !  Ah  !  I  am  sometimes  ashamed  of  my 
sex." 


ONE    WAY    OF    LOVE.  259 

"  You  surely  have  no  cause  to  be  ashamed  of 
me,"  said  Gladys  coldly.  "  I  speak  frankly,  Clara, 
for  you  leave  me  no  choice  in  the  matter.  If  you 
are  upbraiding  me  because  I  will  not  dishonor  a 
noble  man  by  giving  him  half  a  heart,  I  can  only 
say  that  your  reproaches  are  cruelly  unjust.  I 
could  act  in  no  other  way  than  I  did,  and  no  true 
friend  of  his  would  wish  it." 

"  And  do  you  suppose  I  would  urge  it  ?  "  blazed 
the  little  doctor,  whose  Southern  blood  was  assert 
ing  itself  at  last,  in  spite  of  the  discipline  of  years, 
and  the  well-trained  calmness  of  her  exterior. 
"  Oh  !  it  is  not  that  I  am  upbraiding  in  you.  You 
do  not  understand  —  no,  you  do  not  even  see  what 
is  before  your  very  eyes  !  Do  you  not  know  that 
for  months  he  has  been  bearing  your  trials  and 
anxieties,  making  them  doubly  his  own  because  he 
loves  you,  and,  for  your  sake^those  whom  you  love, 
and  now  when  you  take  from  him,  as  he  thinks, 
all  hope,  you  will  still  keep  him  chained  to  the 
spot  with  no  chance  to  recover  himself  and  take 
up  his  work  again  from  a  fresh  point  of  view  ?  " 

Gladys  was  silent,  but  she  had  again  become 
pale. 

"  You  think,"  pursued  her  friend,  unheeding  her 


26O  ONE    WAY    OF    LOVE. 

face,  "  that  because  he  does  not  show  it  outwardly 
he  does  not  feel  it.  Ah  !  we  who  look  at  him  with 
other  eyes  can  see  where  he  suffers.  It  weighs 
upon  him  professionally,  if  in  no  other  way.  I  have 
seen  it  already,  and  others  will  feel  it  in  spite  of 
every  effort  on  his  part.  It  is  that  I  cannot  bear 
to  think  of.  You  have  no  right  to  hurt  him  there  !  " 

"  Clara,  I  do  not  understand  you."  Gladys'  voice 
faltered,  and  she  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  doc 
tor's  excited  face. 

"No,  you  do  not  understand  —  you  have  no  con 
ception  of  a  love  like  that — a  love  that  would  suffer 
everything,  never  thinking  of  itself,  never  asking 
if  what  it  received  were  an  adequate  return  for 
what  it  gave!  Oh!  there  are  such  noble  feelings 

—  love  that  asks  nothing  but  the  happiness  of  its 
object  —  love  that  suffers  only  in  that  other's  pain 

—  love  that  does  not-hold  itself  worthy  — 

"  Oh,  Clara  !  "  cried  Gladys.  She  had  risen  from 
her  knees  and  now  threw  her  arms  round  her 
friend,  pressing  her  to  her  heart. 

"  I  am  over-excited,"  said  Dr.  Martyn,  making 
a  violent  effort  to  control  herself.  She  spoke  in 
her  professional  tone,  raising  her  head  from  Gladys' 
shoulder  as  she  uttered  the  words  and  laying  her 


ONE    WAY    OF    LOVE.  26l 

finger  on  her  own  pulse.  Gladys  sat  watching  her 
anxiously.  For  a  moment  there  was  such  a  silence 
that  the  ticking  of  the  clock  on  the  mantel  became 
distinctly  audible. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  little  doctor  presently,  in 
her  usual  quiet  tones,  "  I  am  afraid  I  have  made 
you  angry.  I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  do  not  often 
lose  control  of  myself." 

"  Angry  ?     Oh  no  !    no  !  " 

"  And  now  I  am  going  home,"  said  Clara,  re 
turning  her  friend's  embrace  with  equal  warmth. 
"There  is  not  a  word  more  to  be  said  except 
that,  if  you  like  my  proposal,  you  had  better  write 
to  Dr.  Stephen,  tell  him  of  it,  and  ask  him  to 
choose  a  place  among  the  mountains  for  us.  You 
will  not  care  to  take  Amy  to  the  sea." 

The  calm,  clear-cut,  decided  face  was  as  com 
posed  as  ever,  and  the  excited  girl  who  had  poured 
out  her  heart  in  such  passionate  worcfs  a  few  mo 
ments  before,  seemed  the  creature  of  a  dream. 
She  was  so  fresh  in  Gladys'  memory,  however,  that 
the  quiet,  business-like  little  note  to  Dr.  Stephen 
was  written  with  tearful  eyes. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

A    BREATH    OF    MOUNTAIN    AIR. 

Let  us  own,  the  sharpest  smart 

Which  human  patience  may  endure 

Pays  light  for  that  which  leaves  the  heart 
More  generous,  dignified,  and  pure. 

COVENTRY  PATMORE. 

THE  place  suggested  by  Dr.  Stephen  was  a 
large  New  Hampshire  farmhouse,  standing 
some  miles  distant  from  one  of  the  little  mountain 
villages,  and  a  delightfully  long  drive  from  rail 
ways  and  other  inroads  of  civilization. 

"  It  is  not  a  boarding  house,  and  you  will  not 
find  Mr.  Wheeler  and  his  wife  in  the  least  affected 
by  the  fever  for  '  fleecing '  summer  boarders.  I 
learned  to  know  the  place  and  people  as  long  ago 
as  when  I  was  a  medical  student  on  a  vacation 
tramp  through  the  mountains,  and  it  has  changed 
very  little  since  then.  The  air  is  elixir,  and  you 
will  both  enjoy  it  heartily,  for  neither  of  you  know 
anything  of  that  phase  of  life." 

Dr.  Stephen  spoke  with  his  usual  hearty  tone, 
262 


A    BREATH    OF    MOUNTAIN    AIR.  263 

and  pleasant  smile,  and  might  have  been  arranging 
for  the  summer  of  the  most  indifferent  patient  on 
his  list.  For  himself,  he  was  going  abroad. 

"  I'm  glad  you've  reconsidered  that  plan,"  said 
his  father,  "and,  as  you've  filled  my  place  so  long, 
I'll  do  my  best  now  to  rattle  round  in  yours  !  " 

Dr.  Forbes  would  have  jested  on  the  scaffold, 
so  it  is  no  wonder  if  his  silent  anxious  observation 
of  his  son's  feelings  —  none  of  which  had  escaped 
his  keen  old  eyes  —  found  relief  in  a  joke. 

The  mountain  expedition  was,  indeed, .a  delight 
ful  novelty  to  both.  Gladys'  childhood,  spent  in 
foreign  travel,  and  her  early  married  life  passed  in 
a  conventional  summer  resort,  had  prevented  her 
from  knowing  anything  of  the  rural  simplicity  of 
New  England  life,  while  to  the  Southern-bred 
Clara  Martyn  the  very  name  of  the  White  Mount 
ains  brought  a  delightful  sense  of  freshness  and 
exhilaration.  Independence  was,  certainly,  not 
new  to  her,  but  the  companionship  of  her  own 
party,  and  freedom  from  all  professional  cares 
except  friendly  ones,  was  something  "  refreshingly 
uncommon,"  as  she  smilingly  remarked  when  they 
were  seated  in  the  cars.  The  jaunt,  too,  seemed 
to  be  regarded  as  an  event  by  the  intimate  friends 


264  A    BREATH    OF    MOUNTAIN    AIR. 

of  both,  for  one  and  another  appeared  at  the  station 
to  wish  them  God  speed,  or  promise  to  look  in 
upon  them  in  the  course  of  their  summer  wander 
ings. 

"  Do  you  know,"  Madge  Boylston  remarked 
thoughtfully  to  her  husband  as  they  drove  home 
from  the  Eastern  depot,  "  I  have  a  theory  about 
this  summer  trip  of  theirs  ?  " 

"  No  ;  have  you  ?  "  said  Ned  easily,  well-schooled 
by  this  time  in  his  wife's  'theories.' 

"  Yes  —  about  Dr.  Martyn,  I  mean.  There  is 
some  sort  of  understanding  between  her  and  Dr. 
Stephen,  Ned  !  I  have  seen  it  for  a  long  time. 
They  have  both  shown  it  very  plainly  all  winter, 
but  why  they  don't  come  together  — 

"  Well  ?  "  said  her  husband,  for  here  the  theorist 
made  a  long  pause. 

"  Ned,  did  you  hear  what  Dr.  Stephen  said  to 
her,  just  as  the  train  was  about  to  start  ?  " 

"  Not  I.     Did  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  couldn't  help  it  as  we  were  all   stand 
ing  together  by  the  car  window.     It  was  just  as 
they  shook  hands  — '  And  may  I  hope  you  will  — 
he  began.      '  Oh,  of  course  I  shall !  '  she  interrupted 
with    the   greatest   energy,  '  and   if   I   should   say, 


A    BREATH    OF    MOUNTAIN    AIR.  265 

Come  ? '  '  I'll  wait  for  that  time,'  he  answered, 
with  a  peculiar  expression,  and  just  there  the  train 
started.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  did  not  hear 
that  and  see  the  way  in  which  he  looked  at  her?" 

"Not  I,"  said  Ned;  "I  thought  that,  like  most 
other  men,  he  had  eyes  for  no  one  but  Gladys  — 
which  seemed  to  me,  under  the  circumstances, 
very  excusable  !  " 

"  If  I  were   not   Gladys'  cousin."   returned  his 

J 

wife  in  high  good-humor,  "  I  should  resent  that 
speech  !  How  blind  you  men  all  are  !  " 

As  the  friends  left  the  cars  at  Plymouth,  they 
were  greeted  by  a  fresh  breeze,  which,  in  compar 
ison  with  the  heated  atmosphere  of  the  train," 
seemed  like  the  very  breath  of  life.  A  three- 
seated  red  wagon  with  a  canvas  cover,  stood  in 
waiting  among  the  many  stages  and  baggage  carts, 
and  a  sturdy-looking,  gray-haired  man,  with  a  face 
tanned  almost  to  the  color  of  leather,  and  a  twinkle 
in  his  gray  eyes  enlivening  an  otherwise  solemn 
visage,  advanced  to  meet  them  as  they  ascended 
the  high  steps  from  the  railroad.  He  glanced  from 
Gladys'  tall,  black-draped  figure  to  the  nurse  and 
baby,  then,  a  little  doubtfully,  at  Clara. 

"  Is  this  Mr.  Wheeler  ?  "  said  Gladys,  advancing 


266  A    BREATH    OF    MOUNTAIN    AIR. 

i 

with  a  smile,  "  and  have  you  driven  over  to  meet 
Mrs.  Amory  and  her  party  ?  " 

"Oh!  you're  her?"  said  the  gray-haired  man, 
with  an  air  of  relief,  "  I  was  lookin'  for  — 

He  murmured  something  unintelligible,  helping 
the  ladies,  meanwhile,  to  mount  the  high  wagon. 

"Take  the  middle  seat,  marm,  and  you'll  ride 
easy.  Much  baggage  ?  I've  fetched  a  cart  along." 

"  A  good  deal,  but  I'll  see  to  that,"  said  Clara, 
starting  down  the  platform  with  alacrity,  and  leav 
ing  Mr.  Wheeler  still  staring,  rather  helplessly,  at 
the  party  in  the  wagon.  Trunks,  boxes  of  books 
or  sketching  materials,  hammocks,  rubber  bath 
tub,  baby-wagon,  and  all  the  attendant  parapher 
nalia  of  city  travellers  being  promptly  bestowed 
upon  the  cart,  under  Clara's  energetic  superin 
tendence,  Mr.  Wheeler  gathered  up  the  reins  and 
turned  his  horses'  heads  homewards. 

High  green  hills  surrounded  them  on  every  side, 
rising  into  dim  blue  mountains  in  the  distance ; 
the  yellow  road  wound  up  among  these  hills  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  see,  between  green  fields,  sweet 
with  hay-cocks,  or  sudden  solemn  walls  of  pine- 
woods  breathing  out  aromatic  odors  on  the  sunny 
road.  Now  and  then  they  passed  a  lonely  farm- 


A    BREATH    OF    MOUNTAIN    AIR.  26/ 

house  looking  out  over  a  grand  sweep  of  upland 
country,  but,  except  for  the  passing  wagons,  whose 
occupants  nodded  a  friendly  "  Good-day,  Deacon," 
to  their  driver,  the  picturesque  solitude  seemed 
unbroken  by  human  life.  The  horses  went  on  at 
good  speed,  tugging  bravely  up  the  hills,  or  grind 
ing  out  discordant  music  from  the  brake  as  they 
dashed  down  the  rare  descents,  and  the  friends, 
revived  by  the  sweet  air,  began  to  chat  merrily 
over  their  summer  plans,  secretly  amused,  mean 
while,  by  the  odd,  keen  glances  of  interest  which 
Mr.  Wheeler  threw  over  his  shoulder  at  them  in 
the  intervals  of  urging  on  his  horses.  Finally,  as 
they  were  going  slowly  up  a  particularly  steep  hill, 
he  loosened  the  reins  on  his  knee,  and,  hitching 
completely  round,  said,  in  a  low,  confidential  tone 
to  Gladys  : 

"  Where's  the  doctor  ?  " 

"Doctor  Stephen  Forbes?"  said  Gladys,  remem 
bering  the  acquaintance.  "  We  left  him  in  Bos 
ton,  just  ready  to  sail  for  Europe." 

"  Oh,  him  —  yes  !  "  said  Mr.  Wheeler.  "  I  meant 
the  other — Dr.  Martyn.  I  expected  him  along 
with  you." 

"Why,  I'm  Dr,  Martyn  myself  1"  cried  Clara. 


268  A    BREATH    OF    MOUNTAIN    AIR. 

"I  want  to  know  !"  said  the  farmer  slowly,  with 
a  deliberate  survey  of  Clara  from  head  to  foot. 
"  Why,  I  s'posed  you  was  —  I  thought  you'd 
wear  — 

"You  were  not  looking  for  a  woman?"  said 
Clara,  interposing  merrily  to  relieve  the  good  man's 
embarrassment.  "  No  wonder,  if  Dr.  Forbes  did 
not  tell  you." 

"He  jes'  said  you  was  friends  of  his,"  replied 
Mr.  Wheeler,  "and  I  thought  —  why,  when  I  saw 
you  fust,  I  didn't  know  what  to  think  !  Git  up  !  " 

His  shoulders  began  slowly  to  shake,  and,  under 
cover  of  a  vigorous  thwack  on  the  sides  of  his 
horses,  he  exploded  in  a  loud  guffaw,  a  fit  of 
laughter  in  which  he  was  heartily  joined  by  the 
two  friends. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  you're  smart,  anyway!"  he  ob 
served,  with  a  final  contemplation  of  Clara. 

The  silent  enjoyment  of  the  joke  lasted  until  the 
roof  of  a  square  white  house,  standing  under  the 
brow  of  a  range  of  hills,  and  flanked  by  the  gables 
of  a  huge  barn,  came  in  sight.  Then  he  spoke 
again  for  the  first  time. 

"There's  the  Farm,"  he  said,  with  a  jerk  of  his 
whip,  and  the  horses,  at  the  welcome  sight,  re- 


A    BREATH    OF    MOUNTAIN    AIR.  269 

doubled  their  speed,  climbing  the  last  ascent 
eagerly,  with  outstretched  necks  and  straining 
muscles.  The  house  was  one  of  those  generous, 
roomy,  old-fashioned  structures,  white-painted  and 
shuttered,  with  wide,  many-windowed  fronts  sug 
gesting  the  square  rooms  within,  that  marked  the 
abode  of  the  well-to-do  farmer  all  through  New 
England  half  a  century  ago.  They  are  rarer  in 
New  Hampshire  than  in  Maine  and  Massachusetts, 
the  stony  soil  keeping  a  tight-fisted  grip  on  the 
hard-earned  dollars,  and  frowning  on  all  accumula 
tion  of  wealth,  whether  in  crops  or  capital.  But 
this  old  homestead  seemed  to  have  been  reared  in 
a  favored  spot ;  the  pastures  about  it  were  smil 
ingly  green,  with  only  a  scanty  sprinkling  of  the 
native  rock,  while  the  ploughed  fields  showed  a 
richer  soil  than  they  had  yet  passed  in  their  drive. 
On  the  rising  slope  behind  stood  clumps  of  sugar- 
maples,  and  dark  pine-woods  shut  in  the  enclosure 
on  either  side.  Only  one  house,  a  farm  of  more 
modest  pretensions,  was  in  sight. 

The  green  painted  door  stood  open,  showing  a 
wide,  low-ceiled  hall  running  through  the  house, 
and  on  the  broad  stone  step  stood  Mrs.  Wheeler, 
and  her  daughter,  a  shy,  pretty  country  girl  of  rosy- 


27O  A    BREATH    OF    MOUNTAIN    AIR. 

cheeked  eighteen.  The  former  was  of  the  lank, 
sallow  type  common  among  New  England  farmers' 
wives  ;  she  spoke  in  a  plaintive  monotone,  some 
what  amusingly  in  contrast  with  her  rapid  move 
ments  and  the  volubility  of  her  utterance,  as  she 
welcomed  them  with  awkward  kindliness. 

"Well,  I  never!"  she  ejaculated,  in  response  to 
her  husband's  introduction  of  Dr.  Martyn,  "  I  never 
thought  but  you  was  an  old  college  chum  of  our 
young  doctor  —  it  comes  sort  of  natural  to  call  him 
so  yet,  though  he's  gettin'  well  along  now.  He 
never  said  nothin'  to  show,  and  I  s'posed  you  come 
along  with  Mrs.  Amory  to  look  after  the  little  girl, 
who  was  sort  of  ailin',  he  said.  Thinks  I,  it'll  be 
handy  to  have  him  in  the  house  if  Zekle  should 
have  a  rheumaticky  turn,  or  if  I  should  be  laid  up 
with  one  of  my  sufferin'  spells  —  and  I  never  asked 
a  question  ! " 

Clara  suggested  that,  in  spite  of  her  sex,  she 
might  be  useful  in  these  emergencies. 

"Well,  I  declare,  I  don't  know  why  not — and  so 
that  is  the  little  girl  ?  Pretty  dear !  she  doesn't 
look  very  rugged.  The  mother  is  as  handsome  as 
a  pictur'  —  is  it  long  since  she  buried  her  hus 
band?"  this  in  a  confidential  aside  to  Clara,  as 


A    BREATH    OF    MOUNTAIN    AIR.  2/1 

they  ascended  the  broad,  low-stepped  staircase  to 
their  rooms.  A  hair-cloth  sofa  stood  on  the  land 
ing,  and  on  either  side  were  great  square,  sunny 
rooms,  with  high,  black  wooden  mantels,  and  many- 
paned  windows,  letting  in  a  glorious  view  of  the 
wide,  billowy  landscape,  and  the  blue  range  beyond. 

"Yes;  it  is  a  pretty  country,"  said  Mrs.  Wheeler, 
throwing  the  shutters  wide  open  and  looking  out 
complacently  on  their  broad  acres.  "  Some  folks 
say  the  Lord  has  prospered  us  beyond  our  neigh 
bors.  The  farm  does  lie  in  a  rich  streak  of  land, 
I  know,  but  that  isn't  all  there  is  to  it.  Some  of 
our  own  folks  has  farms  right  alongside  —  Zekle's 
brother  Charles,  in  that  yeller  house  you  passed  on 
the  road — but  they  never  made  out  to  get  along 
very  well ! "  She  threw  a  sharp  glance  at  her 
daughter  who  stood  bashfully  in  the  corner,  and 
paused  for  breath. 

"You  have  known  Doctor  Stephen  Forbes  along 
time,  I  believe?"  said  Gladys,  with  the  winning 
sweetness  of  tone  that  never  failed  to  captivate  all 
who  came  near  her.  "  He  spoke  of  you  all  very 
warmly,  and  said  he  was  here  years  ago." 

"  Oh,  he  !  "  said  Mrs.  Wheeler,  with  a  short 
laugh,  expressive  of  unspeakable  appreciation 


2/2  A    BREATH    OF    MOUNTAIN    AIR. 

"  Yes,  he  came  here  fust,  years  ago.  He  was 
walkin'  through  the  mountains  with  a  lot  of  young 
doctors  —  he  wasn't  so  fleshy  then  to  look  at  as  he 
is  now.  He  stopped  here  for  a  fortnight,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  he  couldn't  make  enough  of  the  place. 
Know  him  !  Oh  !  we're  not  likely  to  forget  him 
here,  I  tell  you,  though  we  don't  see  him  very 
often.  He  don't  seem  to  change  much  between 
whiles,  though,  if  he  does  look  older." 

"Then  he  has  been  here  lately?" 

"  Bless  you,  only  last  week  !  He  fetched  a  lot 
of  rugs  and  things  ; "  Mrs.  Wheeler  indicated  the 
Turkey  rugs  spread  here  and  there  over  the  straw 
matting  which  Gladys  had  already  noticed  with 
wondering  eyes.  "  I  s'pose  he  wanted  to  make  it 
look  kind  of  homelike  to  you  city  folks,  and  thinks 
I  '  they  must  be  partickler  friends  ! '  '  Well,  Dr. 
Stephen,'  says  I,  '  I'll  do  my  very  best  by  'em,  as 
I  would  by  any  friends  of  yours,  and  they  must 
take  us  as  they  find  us.  We're  plain  folks,  but 
we're  hearty,  and  I  hope  they'll  feel  to  home.' 
But  here  I  am  talkin'  you  to  death,  and  you  fit  to 
drop,  I  daresay ! "  And  the  good  dame  bustled 
downstairs,  carrying  the  pretty  Nancy  in  her  train. 

"  Why,  you    didn't    suppose   these  were    indig- 


A    BREATH    OF    MOUNTAIN    AIR.  2/3 

enous  to  New  Hampshire  soil,  did  you?"  said 
Clara,  pointing  to  the  rugs,  as  their  hostess  closed 
the  door.  "  I  noticed  them  the  moment  we  came 
in,  and,  when  I  spied  those  books,  I  had  no  further 
doubts  as  to  the  source  from  which  they  came." 
She  pointed  to  a  little  what-not  in  the  corner, 
covered  with  books  in  suspiciously  new  bindings. 
Gladys  bent  to  examine  them,  opening  at  the  fly 
leaf  of  the  first  she  took  up,  on  which  "  Stephen 
Forbes"  was  written  in  the  well-known  hand: 
Fronde's  "Carlyle,"  Emerson's  "Nature,"  Miss 
Woolson's  "  Anne,"  Mrs.  Browning,  the  last  "  No 
Name  "  novel,  Longfellow,  Philip  Gilbert  Hamer- 
ton's  "  Painter's  Camp." 

"  Just  the  books,  old  and  new,  that  we  have  left 
out  of  our  box  of  summer  reading,"  commented 
Clara,  "and  a  pretty  good  selection  for  a  busy 
doctor !  What  a  treat  I  shall  have  here  in  lazy 
reading !  Well,  Gladys,  I  will  leave  you  and  Amy 
to  your  toilette  and  go  to  my  own  quarters  across 
the  hall.  Isn't  it  a  charming  old  country  abode  ?  " 

Downstairs  it  seemed  quite  as  attractive  to  the 
city-bred  eyes.  There  was  a  homely  "  settin'-room," 
as  Mrs.  Wheeler  termed  it,  on  one  side  of  the 
front  door,  the  great  open  fireplace  full  of  sugges- 


2/4  A    BREATH    OF    MOUNTAIN    AIR. 

tions  of  winter  comfort.  Hardy  flowers  peeped  in 
at  the  windows,  and  a  tall  old-fashioned  clock 
ticked  away  the  sunny  hours  in  the  corner.  Out 
of  it  opened  the  great  kitchen,  with  heavy  rafters 
overhead,  dresser  and  corner  cupboards,  and  the 
brick  oven  before  which  Mrs.  Wheeler  seemed  to 
be  forever  officiating  as  priestess.  The  little  par 
lor  on  the  other  side  of  the  hall  was  less  attractive, 
as  it  contained  the  family  aspirations  in  the  direc 
tion  of  modern  furniture,- — a  Brussels  carpet,  a 
parlor  organ  and  a  Franklin  stove.  Then  came 
the  dining-room,  consecrated  to  the  use  of  the 
guests,  and  beyond  a  cool  perspective  of  milk-room 
and  pantry  with  yellow-painted  floors.  Outside,  a 
little  vine-wreathed  "  stoop "  afforded  a  snug  re 
treat  for  hammocks  or  lounging  chairs,  and  an  en 
chanting  peep  of  the  far-away  snow-capped  mount 
ains  closed  the  view.  • 

"  We  were  a  large  family  once,"  said  Mrs. 
Wheeler,  as  she  displayed  her  household  gods. 
"  I've  raised  seven  children,  but  they're  all  scat 
tered  now  —  married,  or  one  thing  and  another,  so 
there's  no  one  left  but  father  and  Nancy  and  me. 
George  and  James  are  in  Vermont,  stock-raising, 
and  nothin'  would  do  for  Ben  but  goin'  out  West. 


A    BREATH    OF    MOUNTAIN    AIR.  2/5 

Cerinthy  and  Susan  are  married,  and  Ezra  —  well, 
he's  to  Brunswick  at  college.  You  tell  'em  about 
Ezra,  father." 

"  He  always  was  a  great  hand  for  books,"  began 
Mr.  Wheeler,  in  the  slow  ponderous  tones  which 
contrasted  amusingly  with  his  wife's  rapid  utter 
ance,  "  ever  since  he  was  that  high.  I  remember 
when  Dr.  Stephen  fust  came  here  on  his  student 
tramp ;  the  little  fellow  set  there  in  the  corner  on 
the  settle,  porin'  away  over  somethin'  he'd  got 
hold  of,  and  never  stirred  when  the  other  boys  got 
round  to  hear  the  gentlemen  talk.  Presently  the 
doctor  went  up  to  him  and  put  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder  and  asked,  in  that  hearty  fashion  of  his 
—  jes'  as  he  speaks  now  —  'What  book  have  you 
there,  my  boy?'  'Plutarch's  Lives,  sir,'  says 
Ezra,  never  lookin'  up,  'and  it's  jes'  splendid!' 
There  warn't  any  very  good  schoolin'  for  the  boys 
then,  without  they  quit  home  altogether,  and  I 
couldn't  spare  'em  off  the  farm  for  that.  But  Dr. 
Stephen  took  such  a  fancy  to  Ezra  while  he  was 
here,  questionin'  him  about  his  studies  and  that, 
that  he  persuaded  me  to  let  him  go  to  Concord 
and  board  with  a  sister  of  wife's,  so  as  he  could 
attend  school  there.  Well,  he  stayed  there  a  good 


276  A    BREATH    OF    MOUNTAIN    AIR. 

long  spell,  and  the  doctor,  he  kep'  up  his  interest 
in  the  boy  fust  and  last,  writin'  to  him  and  advisin' 
him  about  books.  By-'n-by'  Ezra  got  to  teachin' 
himself,  and  stuck  to  it  till  the  fust  thing  I  knew 
he  told  me  he  was  goin'  to  college  !  I  hadn't  a 
word  to  say  ag'in  it  —  Ezra'd  hoed  his  own  row 
right  along,  though  I  donno  as  he'd  have  got  the 
fust  start  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  young  doctor. 
Ses  he,  '  I  do  believe  in  a  boy  follerin'  out  his  own 
tastes,'  ses  he,  'and  most  of  us  needs  a  little  push 
to  start  off  with.'  He's  shouldered  up  Ezra  all 
through,  and  it  wouldn't  be  any  great  of  a  surprise 
to  me  if  I  saw  the  lad  a  Bowdoin  professor  before 
I  died  !  He's  the  stuff  they  make  'em  of.  Oh 
yes,  marm,  you've  come  to  the  right  place  to  hear 
about  the  young  doctor  if  he's  a  friend  of  yourn 
—  no  mistake  about  that !  " 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 
NANCY'S  ROMANCE. 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

THAT  was  an  idyllic  summer  to  the  two 
friends.  Their  simple  life  at  the  farm  did 
not  furnish  much  material  for  correspondence,  cer 
tainly,  but  there  was  the  charm  of  unrestraint  and 
novelty  to  them  both,  while  everything  seemed  to 
have  the  flavor  of  the  bracing  mountain  air.  They 
rambled  in  the  fields  and  sat  in  the  pine  groves  ; 
took  long  country  walks  and  returned  with  mar 
vellous  appetites  for  Mrs.  Wheeler's  unrivalled 
cookery ;  drove  off  with  the  old  farmer  on  mount 
ain  excursions  in  uncompromising  buckboards  and 
returned,  well -jolted,  but  in  buoyant  spirits. 
Gladys  lost  her  look  of  sadness,  and  Dr.  Martyn 
her  care-worn  expression,  while  little  Amy  began 
to  grow  as  sturdy,  brown  and  rosy  as  the  tow- 
headed  youngsters  they  passed  on  the  road.  "And 

277 


278  NANCY'S  ROMANCE. 

so  peaked  as  she  looked  when  you  come  !  "  Mrs. 
Wheeler  would  ejaculate  admiringly.  "  I  don't  be 
lieve  she'll  need  no  great  physickin'  after  all, 
Doctor !  " 

Clara  had  quite  established  her  professional 
claim  in  the  eyes  of  her  hosts  now,  despite  the 
disappointment  in  her  sex.  "Opportunity,"  as  she 
said,  "had  favored  her."  One  July  day  as  they 
sat  in  the  "stoop,"  Clara  reading  aloud,  Gladys 
embroidering  from  a  bunch  of  wild  flowers  resting 
on  the  piazza  rail  in  front  of  her,  —  "  She  does  drop 
the  buttercups  and  daisies  on  the  cloth  so  life-like 
you  might  almost  pull  'em,"  as  Mrs.  Wheeler  re 
marked  —  a  voice  called  from  the  kitchen,  — 

"  Doctor,  would  you  jes'  step  this  way  a  minute  ? " 

"Yes,  Mr.  Wheeler,  I'll  come." 

There  was  something  in  the  sturdy  voice  that 
sounded  to  Clara's  practised  ear  a  little  weak  and 
faint.  Gladys,  absorbed  in  her  work,  did  not  no 
tice  it. 

The  old  farmer  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  kitchen 
settle,  as  he  had  come  in  from  the  hay-field,  his 
shirt-sleeves  rolled  up  to  the  elbows,  and  his  broad- 
brimmed  hat  over  his  eyes.  With  one  hand  he  was 
supporting  his  left  wrist,  across  which  was  a  fright- 


NANCY  S    ROMANCE.  2/9 

ful  gash.  The  blood  gushed  from  the  wound  in  a 
quick,  hot  stream,  and  the  ruddy  tan  cheeks  were 
white  and  livid. 

"  I  donno  as  you'll  make  out,"  he  said,  holding 
out  the  wrist  to  her  with  a  pale  smile.  "It's  a 
kind  of  dangerous  place  to  cut.  How  I  managed 
to  do  it  with  my  scythe  I  couldn't  tell  you,  but  the 
fust  thing  I  knew  —  well,  wife's  out,  and  Nancy's 
upstairs,  and  I'm  glad  of  it,  too.  Ses  I,  '  it's  lucky 
we  have  a  doctor  on  hand  '  -—do  you  think  you  can 
kind  o'  splice  it  ? "  He  looked  at  Clara  a  little  doubt 
fully  under  his  bushy  gray  eyebrows,  as  if  half  ex 
pecting  her  to  turn  faint  or  scream,  woman-fashion. 

But  she  was  equal  to  the  emergency.  She 
stepped  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  called  softly  to 
Nancy  to  bring  her  the  green  leather  case  on  the 
table,  held  the  wounded  wrist  in  her  firm,  gentle 
grasp  till  the  girl  arrived,  checked  the  terrified 
exclamation  on  her  lips  with  one  reassuring  look, 
and  a  quiet  "  Give  me  some  hot  water  from  that 
kettle,  please,  Nancy;"  adjusted  the  ligatures  with 
quick,  dexterous  movements  of  her  small  hands, 
and  bandaged  the  arm  with  linen  from  Mrs. 
Wheeler's  stores,  never  once  changing  color  dur 
ing  the  process. 


280  NANCY'S  ROMANCE. 

"Wai,  I  vum  !  "  said  the  old  farmer  who  had 
watched  her,  throughout,  with  jaws  grimly  set  in 
pain,  but  with  so  keen  an  interest  in  the  operation 
that  it  acted  like  an  antidote.  "  I  reckon  you 
know  your  trade,  after  all !  I  never  see  any  wo 
man  handier  'n  you  air,  nor  yet  any  feller  with 
more  grit!"  And,  with  this  tribute  to  Clara's 
skill  feebly  uttered,  the  sturdy  old  man  fainted 
away  for  the  first  and  only  time  in  his  life. 

"  This  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  makes  me  wish 
women  had  more  muscular  strength,"  said  Clara, 
regarding  him  ruefully.  "Which  way  are  the  men 
mowing,  Nancy  ?  I  must  leave  you  with  your 
father  and  call  one  of  them  to  help  us." 

"They're  away  down  in  the  far  lot,  but  I'll  call 
Cousin  Charley —  he's  nearer,"  said  Nancy,  blush 
ing. 

The  summons  produced  a  tall,  broad-shouldered 
young  fellow,  blue-eyed  and  fair-haired,  with  whose 
aid  the  old  farmer  was  transported  to  his  room 
where  he  remained  a  close  prisoner,  sorely  against 
his  will,  all  through  haying  time. 

This  was  the  first  appearance  on  the  scene  of 
'  Cousin  Charley,'  otherwise  Charles  Wheeler, 
junior,  the  eldest  son  of  Mr.  Wheeler's  unthrifty 


NANCY'S  ROMANCE.  281 

brother,  and,  as  the  summer  boarders  were  not 
long  in  discovering,  an  unwelcome  suitor  of  pretty 
Nancy's. 

The  country  damsel  had  an  intense  admiration 
for  Gladys,  whose  graceful  beauty  always  attracted 
young  girls.  She  brought  her  little  offerings  of 
flowers  or  ferns,  watched  her,  spell-bound,  as  she 
drew  or  embroidered,  expressed  by  her  devotion 
to  Amy  what  she  was  too  shy  to  show  to  her 
mother,  and  was  overwhelmed  with  gratitude  when 
Mrs.  Amory  offered  to  teach  her  some  bit  of  fancy- 
work,  or  asked  for  the  recipe  of  some  particularly 
successful  dish. 

One  evening,  Gladys  was  sitting  alone  in  the 
moonlight  on  the  little  piazza.  She  was  musing 
very  deeply  over  something,  and  a  half-sad,  half- 
wistful  expression  was  fast  settling  on  her  face, 
when  a  low  murmur  of  voices  behind  her  roused 
her  from  her  reverie.  They  came  through  the 
window  of  the  milk-room  where  Nancy  was  often 
busy  at  that  hour,  and,  thinking  Clara  might  be 
with  her,  Gladys  went  in  too,  glad  to  escape  from 
her  own  thoughts.  But  Dr.  Martyn  was  not  there  ; 
a  young  man  stood  leaning  against  the  wall  beside 
Nancy's  table  covered  with  milk  pans. 


282  NANCY'S  ROMANCE. 

"  Come  in,  marm,"  he  said,  as  Gladys  drew  back, 
"I'm  going.  Well,  good-by,  then,  Nancy." 

He  spoke  in  a  short,  half-defiant  tone,  scarcely 
looking  at  the  girl,  bowed  somewhat  bashfully  to 
Gladys,  and  turned  away  from  the  door. 

"  Oh  !  he's  gone,  "  cried  Nancy  distressfully. 
"  He's  gone  away  vexed  with  me !  Oh  Mrs. 
Amory !  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  She  dropped  down 
on  the  stool  beside  the  milk-pans,  buried  her  face 
in  her  apron  and  began  to  sob. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  Gladys,  laying  her 
hand  kindly  on  the  heaving  young  shoulder.  "Tell 
me  all  about  it !  That  was  your  Cousin  Charles, 
was  it  not  ?  Why  is  he  angry  with  you  ?  " 

"  He's  no  cause,  I'm  sure,"  said  Nancy,  between 
the  sobs.  "He  knows  I'd  never  —  he  knows  it's 
the  same  as  a  promise  —  he  oughtn't  to  look  for 
that  when  father  and  mother  —  " 

It  was  hard  to  make  out  the  story  through  the 
tearful  gasps,  so  Gladys  stroked  the  bright  young 
head  soothingly,  sat  down  beside  the  girl  with  an 
arm  around  her  waist,  and  waited  patiently  till 
Nancy  should  be  moved  to  bestow  her  confidence. 
Nothing  could  have  had  a  more  potent  charm  than 
Mrs.  Amory's  caresses,  and  the  weeping  maiden 


NANCY'S  ROMANCE.  283 

was  soon  ready  enough  to  pour  out  her  tale  to  her 
sympathizing  ears. 

"  He's  called  me  his  little  wife  ever  since  I  could 
speak  plain,"  said  Nancy  bashfully,  "  but  since  we 
began  to  grow  up,  father  and  mother  have  shown 
him  pretty  plain  that  they  didn't  like  it.  It  isn't 
that  they've  anything  against  Charley  himself,  but 
Uncle  Charles  and  Aunt  Jane  aren't  a  bit  fore 
handed,  and  father  says  Charley'll  turn  out  a  chip 
of  the  old  block.  It  ain't  right  to  say  so,  for 
Charley's  never  had  a  chance  to  show  out  yet,  and 
things  at  Uncle  Charles'  are  so  shif'less  there's 
no  use  tryin'.  But  Charley's  kind  of  proud,  and 
he  and  father  ain't  very  soft-spoken  to  each  other. 
Now  the  younger  boys  have  grown  up  enough  to 
work  on  the  farm,  and  Cousin  Charley  says  he's 
goin'  off  out  West  to  try  his  luck  for  himself. 
Ben  —  my  brother  Ben  out  in  Colorado  —  has  a 
ranch,  and  he's  sent  for  him  —  they  were  always 
great  friends  —  so  Charley's  goin'.  And,  seein' 
it's  so  far  and  he  to  be  gone  so  long,  it  seems  nat 
ural,  I  s'pose,  to  ask  for  a  promise.  I  told  him  I 
couldn't  give  that  exactly,  but  he  might  know  it 
was  just  the  same.  He  said  —  "here  Nancy's 
tears  broke  out  afresh. 


284  NANCY'S  ROMANCE. 

"And  he  said  —  ?"  repeated  Gladys. 

"  That  I  didn't  know  how  a  feller  felt  goin'  off 
so  far  with  a  kind  of  a  drag  at  his  heart  all  the 
time,  thinkin'  that,  while  he  was  workin'  for  us 
both,  some  one  else  might  step  in  and  take  his 
chance.  Of  course  that's  ridicklous  —  Charley 
knows  as  well  as  I  do  that  I  wouldn't  look  at  any 
body  else,  even  if  there  was  anybody  in  this  lone 
some  place  to  look  at !"-  — here,  for  a  moment,  Nancy 
smiled  through  her  tears,  —  "but  men  are  different, 
I  s'pose,  and  nothin'  else  will  suit  Charley  but  a 
reg'lar  promise.  I  darsn't  give  it  and  make  father 
angry  with  us  both,  and,  if  I  speak  about  it,  he's 
that  set  in  his  way  that  it'll  make  him  all  the 
harder  against  Charley.  But,  oh  !  Mrs.  Amory, 
won't  you  speak  for  me?  —  father  and  mother  both 
just  think  the  world  of  you." 

"  I  will,  certainly,  Nancy,  if  you  will  tell  me 
what  to  say."  Gladys  drew  the  girl  nearer  to  her, 
touched  by  the  self-forgetful  earnestness  of  the 
round,  rosy  young  face. 

"Tell  them,"  whispered  Nancy,  her  head  droop 
ing  a  little,  "that  promise  or  no  promise  don't 
make  any  real  odds.  That  my  heart  is  Charley's 
now  just  as  much  as  if  we  were  standin'  up  before 


NANCY'S  ROMANCE.  285 

the  minister  this  minute,  and  if  father  could  wish 
me  to  say  Yes  to  any  other  feller  with  such  a  feel- 
in'  as  that  in  my  heart,  he  ain't  the  man  I  thought 
him!  tell  him — oh,  Mrs.  Amory  !  "  the  blushes 
overspread  Nancy's  face  and  neck,  "don't  ask  me 
to  say  any  more.  If  you  know  what  love  is  —  and 
of  course  you  do  —  just  put  it  into  words  for  me 
better  than  I  can  do  it !  " 

She  turned  away  her  face,  and  Gladys  felt  the 
color  mounting  in  her  own  cheeks. 

"  And  you  are  so  sure  you  love  him,  Nancy  ? " 
she  asked,  with  a  gentle  caress. 

Nancy  turned  her  eyes  for  a  moment  on  the 
questioner,  but  the  look  was  enough,  and  Gladys 
needed  no  other  answer. 

That  evening,  when  the  girl  had  gone  upstairs, 
Gladys  went  into  the  kitchen  where  the  old  couple 
spent  their  evenings  unless  especially  invited  to 
join  their  boarders.  It  was  a  pleasant  place  for 
any  one ;  the  wood-fire  still  smouldered  on  the 
hearth  with  a  reluctant  brightness,  as  if  loath  to 
leave  the  cheery  kitchen  in  darkness.  Little  danc 
ing  reflections  twinkled  in  every  dish  on  the  dress 
er,  gleamed  back  from  the  polished  table,  and  from 
Mrs.  Wheeler's  bright  knitting-needles,  and  lighted 


286  NANCY'S  ROMANCE. 

up  the  old  farmer's  rugged  face  as  he  sat  in  the 
chimney-corner,  ruminating  over  his  pipe.  He 
rose  as  they  entered,  knocking  out  the  ashes,  and 
Mrs.  Wheeler  hastened  to  dust  two  already  spot 
less  chairs. 

"  But  won't  you  set  in  the  other  room  ?  Zekle's 
pipe  is  a  little  strong  here,  maybe." 

"  Never  mind  the  pipe  ;  let  us  sit  here,  Mrs. 
Wheeler.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  be  in  your  kitchen 
once  in  a  while,  and  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you 
and  Mr.  Wheeler." 

"  I  hope  everythin's  satisfactory  to  you,  marm, 
and  the  doctor?"  began  their  host,  still  on  his  feet. 

"Yes,  indeed,  we  are  thoroughly  happy  and  com 
fortable.  But  sit  down,  Mr.  Wheeler,  I  want  to 
say  a  word  about  Nancy.  She  has  been  telling  me 
a  little  to-night  of  her  own  affairs." 

"  Nancy's  too  free  with  her  tongue,"  said  her 
mother.  "You'd  ought  to  tell  her  so." 

"  She  only  answered  my  questions,  and  you  know 
I  am  very  much  interested  in  your  pretty  daughter." 

The  mother  looked  gratified,  and  even  the  iron- 
gray  eyebrows  smoothed  a  little. 

"She  tells  me,"  began  Gladys,  and  Nancy's 
little  love-confession  was  repeated  in  more  silvery 


NANCY'S  ROMANCE.  287 

accents,  and  more  graceful  words,  perhaps,  but  cer 
tainly  in  no  more  convincing  rhetoric  than  the  girl 
herself  had  employed. 

"  I  know  you  want  to  do  the  best  you  can  for 
your  daughter,"  Gladys  concluded,  while  the  old 
couple  listened  in  silence.  "  I  know  you  fear  that 
this  young  man  may  not  give  her  as  comfortable  a 
home  as  she  has  here  with  you,  but  you  know  one 
cannot  choose  for  one's  children.  I  am  sure  you 
have  no  fault  to  find  with  the  young  man  himself 
—  remember  you  have  never  given  him  a  fair  trial 
yet,  and  you  would  wish  to  do  that,  surely?" 

"  I  s'pose  every  one'd  ought  to  have  that,"  the 
old  farmer  acceded,  a  tittle  reluctantly. 

"And  if  he  is  to  have  it  —  now  just  look  back 
on  your  own  youth  and  tell  me,  Mr.  Wheeler  —  if 
he  is  to  have  it,  ought  he  to  go  off  with  that  drag 
at  his  heart  ?  "  Gladys  unconsciously  repeated  Nan 
cy's  expression,  "  that  uncertainty  whether  or  not 
he  is  to  work  with  the  feeling  that  it  is  for  her  ?  " 

"Wai,  no,  marm,  perhaps  not,  if  he  is  to  start 
fair.  Nor  yet  I  hain't  got  nothin'  agen  Charley 
himself,  as  you  say.  But,  'like  father,  like  son,' 
you  know,  and  I'd  be  sorry  to  see  my  girl  in  a 
house  like  Jane's." 


288  NANCY'S  ROMANCE. 

"  Besides  the  spur  you  will  give  him  by  your 
trust,"  said  Gladys,  pursuing  the  advantage,  "he 
will  have  your  son  Ken  to  steady  and  encourage 
him.  He  has  done  well  ?  " 

"Yes,  Ben's  smart,"  said  the  father,  softening. 
"  He's  steady  and  he's  sure." 

"  Then  you  will  talk  it  over  with  the  young 
couple  and  let  your  nephew  speak  for  himself?" 
said  Gladys,  rising,  and  looking  at  the  old  man 
with  her  most  persuasive  smile.  "  I  see  you 
know,  as  well  as  I  do,  that  Nancy  will  never  think 
of  any  one  else  !  " 

"  I  reckon  you're  about  right  there,  marm," 
he  assented,  with  a  grim  smile  ;  "  Nancy's  soft- 
spoken,  but  she's  sot.  Wai,  seein'  it's  you  and 
the  doctor,  I'll  sleep  on  it,  and  see  what  the  boy 
has  to  say  for  himself  in  the  mornin'." 

"  And  we're  much  obliged  to  you,  Mrs.  Amory," 
Mrs.  Wheeler  hastened  to  add,  in  her  plaintive 
monotone,  evidently  relieved  by  the  loophole  of 
happiness  thus  left  open  for  Nancy. 

They  took  their  lamps  from  the  shelf  in  the  hall, 
and  went- slowly  upstairs  to  their  rooms. 

"  Oh  Gladys !  "  said  Clara,  laying  her  hand  on 
her  friend's  shoulder  as  they  paused  a  moment  on 


NANCY'S  ROMANCE.  289 

the  landing  to  say  good-night.  There  was  a  whole 
volume,  unsaid,  in  her  tone. 

A  lovely  shell-like  pink  stole  over  Gladys'  fair 
cheek. 

"  Don't  be  too  ready  to  judge  harshly,  Clara," 
she  said  gently,  in  reply  to  the  unspoken  reproach. 

"Ah!  you  do  understand,"  Clara  said,  half  to 
herself,  as  she  closed  her  door.  A  thought  came 
across  her  of  Stephen's  blunt,  half-boyish  protest 
against  the  "fair  divided  excellence,"  with  whom 
as  she  had  hoped  for  his  "  completing,"  he  might 
yet  meet. 

"  I  must  tell  her  that,  too,"  she  said,  and  though 
she  smiled,  the  tears  rose  in  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

SURPRISED. 

It  comes,  —  the  beautiful,  the  free, 
The  crown  of  all  humanity. 

LONGFELLOW. 

MORE  than  one  letter  had  been  exchanged 
between  the  two  doctors  since  their  part 
ing.  Several  times  Gladys  had  seen  an  envelope 
addressed  to  "  Dr.  C.  Martyn,"  in  the  firm,  clear- 
cut  characters,  and  had  asked,  in  a  somewhat 
studiously  careless  tone,  if  there  were  any  news 
from  Dr.  Stephen. 

"  Chiefly  professional  news,"  Clara  would  reply, 
or,  a  day  or  two  later,  "  I  am  writing  to  Dr. 
Stephen,  Gladys  ;  shall  I  say  anything  for  you  ?  " 

"Tell  him  about  Amy,  you  know,  and  say  how 
happy  I  am  in  the  change  —  and  thank  him,  of 
course,  for  suggesting  the  place." 

"  Oh  yes  !   I  shall  say  all  that,  of  course." 

One  day  in  late  August,  when  the  ferns  were 
beginning  to  show  straw-colored  fronds  here  and 
there  among  the  green,  and  Amy,  pattering  about 
on  her  own  sturdy  little  feet,  to  shout  with  glee 

290 


SURPRISED.  291 

over  the  bright  red  berries  on  the  partridge  vines, 
the  two  friends  were  sitting  together  in  the  pine- 
grove  with  books  and  work.  It  was  a  lovely  sun 
shiny  day,  summer  sunshine  still,  though  a  gay 
branch  here  and  there  among  the  maples  reminded 
one  that  summer  was  over.  A  breeze,  just  dashed 
with  the  breath  of  autumn,  rustled  the  pines  over 
their  heads  now  and  then,  or  wafted  a  bright  leaf 
to  their  feet. 

"  Ah  !  summer  is  over,"  said  Gladys.  "  We  must 
be  going  soon." 

"  No,  not  yet,"  said  Clara,  almost  pleadingly. 
"  I  am  like  a  schoolgirl  who  can't  bear  the  thought 
of  having  holidays  over !  This  has  been  a  lovely 
time  to  us  both." 

"  Yes,"  said  her  friend  warmly,  "  I  should  hardly 
know  how  to  get  on  without  you  now,  I  believe. 
It  is  well  you  are  so  near  me  in  Boston,  though  the 
hospital  is  a  formidable  rival." 

"  Oh,  if  that  were  all !  "     And  Clara  sighed. 

"  What  more  is  there  ?  There  is  to  be  no  other 
change  ? " 

"  None  that  I  am  ready  to  talk  of,  yet.  But  you 
remember  I  said  I  had  other  plans  for  the  autumn." 

"  I  suppose  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Gladys 


SURPRISED. 


sorrowfully.  "  Oh,  Clara  !  do  you  really  think  it 
is  your  duty  to  go  ?  " 

"  My  wish,  you  mean,"  said  the  little  doctor 
firmly.  "Yes,  I  really  do  —  but  we  will  not  talk 
of  it  now,  nor  do  I  wish  to  go  yet,  unless  you  are 
homesick.  Stay  till  October  —  indeed,  I  really 
wish  it." 

"Then  I  do  as  well." 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Clara  suddenly,  as  she 
took  up  the  book  she  had  dropped,  "  I  did  not  tell 
you,  did  I,  that  Dr.  Stephen  sails  on  the  eighteenth 
of  September?  " 

"  No,"  said  Gladys,  with  a  slight  start.  "  Indeed, 
I  thought  he  had  no  idea  of  coming  at  present." 

"The  time  was  uncertain  when  he  left  home," 
replied  Clara,  without  looking  up. 

She  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  volume  she 
held,  a  little  collection  of  poems  which  they  had 
found  among  the  books  in  Gladys'  chamber. 

"  This  is  a  little  thing  of  '  H.  H.'s,'  "  she  said,  and 
began  to  read  — 

"  Oh  Love  is  weak 

Which  counts  the  answers  and  the  gains, 
Weighs  all  the  losses  and  the  pains, 
And  eagerly  each  fond  word  drains 

A  joy  to  seek. 


SURPRISED.  293 

"  When  Love  is  strong, 
It  never  tarries  to  take  heed, 
Or  know  if  its  return  exceed 
Its  gift ;  in  its  sweet  haste  no  greed, 

No  strifes  belong. 

"  It  hardly  asks 
If  it  be  loved  at  all ;  to  take 
So  barren  seems,  when  it  can  make 
Such  bliss,  for  the  beloved  sake, 

Of  bitter  tasks. 

"  Its  ecstasy 

Could  find  hard  death  so  beauteous, 
It  sees  through  tears  how  Christ  loved  us, 
And  speaks,  in  saying  '  I  love  thus,' 

No  blasphemy. 

• 

"  So  much  we  miss 
If  love  is  weak,  so  much  we  gain 
If  love  is  strong  —  " 

Here  a  white  hand  was  laid  on  the  page.  "Don't 
read  that,  Clara !  "  said  Gladys,  and,  looking  up, 
Dr.  Martyn  saw  that  the  tears  had  risen  in  her 
eyes.  "  It  reminds  me  —  no,  no  more  poetry, 
please !  I  believe  I  am  not  in  the  vein  to-day." 

They  went  in  soon  after,  and  Clara,  sitting  down 
at  her  desk,  read  over  a  letter  which  she  had  writ 
ten  to  England.  She  read  it  with  a  thoughtful 
face,  looked  up  at  her  friend  musingly,  then  added 
one  word  to  what  she  had  already  written.  It  was  : 
"Come!" 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

"LOVE'S    FULFILLING." 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought 
Except  for  love's  sake  only. 

MRS.  BROWNING. 

A  WILD  little  stream  dashed  down  from  the 
hills  a  mile  from  the  house,  its  brown  waters 
foaming  and  turning  white  as  it  leaped  through  the 
rocky  channel.  A  dusty  little  wood-path,  turning 
off  from  the  road,  led  up  to  a  saw-mill,  standing 
on  the  bank,  while  all  about  the  cleared  space  in 
the  woods,  lay  piles  of  fragrant,  newly-sawn  boards, 
drying  in  the  sunshine.  The  rocks  just  below  the 
dam  were  a  favorite  haunt  of  the  friends,  for  there 
was  a  charming  peep  up  the  stream  of  the  deep 
silent  dam  overhung  with  cool  green  shade  from 
the  birches,  the  foaming  cascade  below,  and  far  up 
the  hills,  thick  woods,  divided  by  the  silver  thread 
of  the  merry  little  rivulet. 

Here  Gladys  was  sitting,  a  few  days  before  their 
departure,  finishing  a  sketch  which  she  had  begun 

294 


"LOVES    FULFILLING.  2Q5 

in  the  summer.  Dr.  Martyn  had  driven  some  miles 
farther  on,  with  the  old  farmer,  to  see  a  sick  child, 
and,  except  for  the  whir  of  the  mill,  and  the  dis 
tant  prattle  of  little  Amy  hunting  for  wood  treas 
ures  with  her  nurse,  she  was  sitting  in  unbroken 
solitude. 

"  Don't  be  in  any  hurry  to  come  back  for  us  !  " 
she  called,  as  the  wagon  started.  "  The  foliage  is 
so  different  since  we  were  here  that  I  shall  find 
enough  to  do.  It  will  be  like  a  new  sketch." 

An  hour  might  have  passed,  but  Gladys'  pencil 
was  still  busy,  when  a  man's  step  crackling  on  the 
underbrush,  and  the  merry  little  ripple  of  Amy's 
talk  in  glad  outpouring  to  a  new-comer,  roused  her 
from  her  work. 

"  What,  back  already  !  "  she  exclaimed,  without 
turning  round.  "  I  am  not  half  ready  for  you  !  " 

"  I  hoped  I  had  not  come  too  soon,"  said  the 
voice  in  reply,  but  the  tones  were  very  different 
from  Mr.  Wheeler's.  She  turned  quickly,  starting 
to  her  feet  with  the  suddenness  of  the  surprise  as 
Stephen  Forbes  came  from  the  woods  behind  her. 
The  glad  color  rushed  to  her  cheeks,  fading  away 
as  quickly,  and  the  hand  which  she  held  out  to  him 
slightly  trembled. 


296  "LOVE'S    FULFILLING." 

Stephen  stood  looking  down  at  her  for  a  moment, 
while  he  held  her  hand  in  his. 

"  I  have  startled  you.  I  should  not  have  come 
upon  you  so  suddenly,  but  they  told  me  you  were 
all  here,  and  I  came  on  at  once." 

He  spoke  in  his  usual  quiet,  pleasant  tones,  but 
a  happy  light  shone  out  from  the  eyes  that  looked 
at  her  so  earnestly. 

"  We  did  not  know  you  were  coming  here,  though 
Dr.  Martyn  told  me  you  had  sailed.  Or,"  the  color 
mounting  again  to  her  cheek  as  she  saw  the  ex 
pression  of  his  face,  "  or  did  she  know  of  it? " 

"  I  do  not  think  it  will  surprise  her  to  find  me 
here,"  said  Stephen  quietly.  He  sat  down  with 
her  on  the  fallen  log  from  which  she  had  started  at 
his  coming,  looking  in  her  radiantly  beautiful  face 
with  the  protecting  tenderness  that  could  not  fail 
to  calm  all  flutter  of  the  nerves.  But,  oh  !  not  for 
worlds  would  he  have  missed  the  involuntary  revela 
tion  of  that  slight  tremor  ! 

They  were  sitting  side  by  side,  talking  in  quiet, 
friendly  fashion  when  the  old  farmer  drove  up  with 
Clara,  and,  whether  the  meeting  were  unlooked-for 
or  not,  nothing  could  have  been  heartier  than  the 
greeting  on  all  sides. 


"LOVES    FULFILLING.  2Q7 

Mr.  Wheeler  eyed  them  in  his  ruminating  fash 
ion  as  they  returned  through  the  woods  to  the 
roadside  where  Stephen  had  left  his  buggy. 

"  I'll  take  Mrs.  Amory  and  the  nurse  in  the 
wagon,"  said  the  old  farmer  eagerly,  and  with  an 
indescribable  twinkle  of  his  eyes  towards  Gladys, 
"if  you  two  doctors  will  jes'  drive  along  ahead." 
Then,  as  the  dusty  buggy-top  bobbed  up  and  down 
the  road  in  front  of  them,  the  good  man  turned 
ponderously  towards  Mrs.  Amory,  and  said,  with  a 
slow  smile  overspreading  his  tanned  visage, — "  Now 
I  want  to  know !  I  never  had  the  fust  idee  !  " 

It  was  a  pleasant  evening :  the  simple  country 
people  with  their  hearty  welcome  of  the  treasured 
guest,  Stephen  with  his  easy,  kindly  adaptation  to 
all  sides  of  human  nature,  Clara,  with  unwonted 
animation  of  talk  and  repartee,  made  a  lively  at 
mosphere.  Gladys  was  very  silent,  but  there  was 
a  happy  brightness  in  her  eyes  which  quite  covered 
the  lack  of  words. 

"  How  you  do  notice  everything  Doctor  !  "  Mrs. 
Wheeler  remarked  when  the  others  had  gone  up 
stairs,  and  Stephen  asked  in  his  hearty,  friendly 
fashion  if  he  should  congratulate  Nancy.  "What 
ever  made  you  think  she  was  engaged  ?  " 


298  "LOVE'S    FULFILLING." 

"Oh!  I  don't  know,"  with  a  smile.  "You  know 
we  doctors  get  in  the  habit  of  noticing  little  things, 
and,  when  I  was  here  last,  I  happened  to  observe 
—  well,  to  spare  Miss  Nancy's  blushes,  I  will  only 
say  that  I  thought  matters  had  taken  a  more  favor 
able  turn  since  then." 

"  To  think  of  you're  bein'  a  bachelor,  and  takin' 
notice  of  such  things  ! "  remarked  Mrs.  Wheeler, 
with  uplifted  eyes.  "  Not  that  Nancy'd  be  en 
gaged  now  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Mrs.  Amory.  She 
took  a  fancy  to  the  girl  and  spoke  a  word  for 
Charley  that  went  right  to  father's  heart.  She 
seemed  to  know  just  what  a  hankerin'  feelin'  that 
poor  feller  was  carryin'  away  with  him.  Well,  I 
suppose  enough  men  have  been  in  love  with  her, 
poor  souls !  but  it's  odd  to  me  that  she  should 
know  just  how  they  felt  about  it." 

The  doctor  smiled,  but  said  nothing.  It  was, 
perhaps,  in  consequence  of  Mr.  Wheeler's  surpris 
ingly  shrewd  discovery  and  the  confidence  made 
thereupon  to  his  wife,  that,  on  the  next  morning, 
the  little  household  seemed  to  have  pressing  affairs 
demanding  their  presence  anywhere  rather  than  on 
the  porch  where  the  doctor  sat  in  the  hammock 
talking;  to  Clara.  Mrs.  Wheeler  shut  herself  into 


"LOVE'S    FULFILLING."  299 

the  remote  regions  of  the  dairy,  calling  loudly  for 
Nancy's  aid  ;  her  husband,  after  fidgeting  nervously 
about  the  farm-yard  and  eying  Gladys,  who  stood 
at  a  window  dangerously  near  the  professional  pair, 
holding  her  little  girl  on  the  sill,  drew  near  and 
bashfully  asked  if  he  might  show  her  that  clump 
of  maples  where  he  got  his  finest  sugar. 

"Maybe  they're  not  much  to  look  at,"  he  ob 
served,  his  anxious  face  growing  radiant  with  relief 
as  Gladys  assented,  and,  taking  the  child  by  the 
hand,  followed  him  up  the  slope,  "  but  there's  a 
purty  view  from  the  hill,  and  I  mightn't  think  of 
it  agen  before  you  go  —  I  donno  as  I  ever  did  think 
of  it  before,  either." 

Then,  as  they  were  now  out  of  hearing  from  the 
house,  he  added,  lowering  his  voice  to  a  gruff,  con 
fidential  whisper,  "  I  hope  I  didn't  put  you  out, 
marm  ?  I  reckoned  the  two  doctors'd  find  enough 
to  say  till  you  come  back." 

Gladys  smiled,  amused  by  the  old  man's  sly  ex 
pression.  "  No,  I  am  glad  to  go,  Mr.  Wheeler.  I 
should  be  sorry  to  miss  any  of  the  pretty  spots 
here,  for  I  shall  always  look  back  on  our  summer 
in  this  place  as  one  of  the  happiest  of  my  life." 

"  We'll  be  proud  to  see  you  back  any  time  —  you 


3QO  "LOVE'S  FULFILLING." 

and  the  doctor,  both,"  said  Mr.  Wheeler  heartily. 
"  And,  as  for  Nancy,  she'd  give  her  eyes  to  hear 
you  say  you'd  come  next  summer." 

"  It  is  hard  to  make  plans  so  long  beforehand," 
replied  Gladys.  "  There  may  be  many  changes  for 
us  all  before  that  time." 

"  Wai,  yes,  that's  so,"  said  the  old  farmer,  with 
a  chuckle  and  a  glance  at  the  piazza.,  "and  some 
of  'em  isn't  hard  to  see  comin'." 

The  outlook  proved  so  pretty  that  Gladys  lin 
gered  there  with  little  Amy  after  Mr.  Wheeler, 
delighted  with  the  success  of  his  strategy,  had 
gone  back  to  the  farm-yard.  The  trees,  fast-thin 
ning  as  they  were,  hid  the  house  from  sight,  but 
there  was  a  lovely  view  of  the  intervale  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road,  and  a  soft  blue  mist  lying 
low  on  the  mountains.  The  squirrels  ran  fear 
lessly  up  and  down  the  trees  about  her,  or  darted 
across  the  green  moss  carpet  under  her  feet,  and 
the  shrill  tap  of  the  woodpecker  resounded  through 
the  grove.  There  was  a  depth  of  quiet  happiness 
in  Gladys'  heart  that  made  the  intense  solitude 
grateful.  She  stooped  and  lifted  her  little  girl  in 
her  arms,  covering  her  dimpled  cheeks  with  kisses. 
"Darling,"  she  said,  "would  you  be  happy,  too  ?" 


"LOVES    FULFILLING.  3OI 

A  voice  beside  her  broke  the  stillness,  but  this 
time  she  did  not  start,  though  the  approaching 
footsteps  had  made  no  sound  on  the  soft  moss. 

"  So  Mr.  Wheeler  deserted  you,  after  luring  you 
up  to  the  sugar-maples,"  said  Stephen  merrily. 

"  It  was  a  ruse,"  said  Gladys,  smiling,  "did  you 
not  suspect  it  ?  He  fancied  me  in  the  way  of 
your  professional  talk  with  Clara." 

"  Clearsighted  farmer  !  "  said  the  doctor,  in  the 
same  tone.  Then,  more  gravely,  "  Dr.  Martyn  has 
been  telling  me  that  she  is  to  return  to  Memphis 
this  autumn.  It  was  no  surprise  to  me,  for  I 
knew  she  felt  that  was  her  field  so  soon  as  she 
could  leave  her  hospital  work  in  safe  hands,  but  I 
had  not  thought  of  her  going  so  soon." 

"  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  it,"  said  Gladys. 

"  She  does  not  look  upon  it  as  a  sacrifice,"  said 
the  doctor  cheerfully.  "She  feels  that  she  owes 
her  time  and  talents  to  her  birthplace,  and,  warm 
as  is  her  affection  for  her  Northern  friends,  she 
will  have  no  heart-ache  when  she  leaves  us.  There 
is  such  joy  in  doing  a  work  for  which  one  is  fitted 
as  she  is  for  hers,  that  it  leaves  no  room  for  per 
sonal  attachments  or  regrets.  We  shall  miss  her 
far  more  than  she  will  us." 


3O2  "  LOVE  S    FULFILLING. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  said  Gladys,  with  a  sigh. 
"  Ah !  Clara  is  a  noble  woman.  But  there  are 
few  people  who  really  know  her  —  she  does  not 
wear  her  heart  on  her  sleeve." 

"  No  one  can  know  her  better  or  appreciate  her 
more  than  I,"  said  Stephen. 

He  looked,  a  little  wonderingly,  at  Gladys' 
tearful  eyes.  She  was  still  holding  Amy  in 
her  arms  as  they  walked  on  slowly  through  the 
trees. 

"  Give  me  the  child,"  said  the  doctor,  stopping 
short,  and  speaking  with  a  shade  of  his  profes 
sional  authority.  "  She  is  too  heavy  for  you 
to  carry.  Will  you  leave  your  mother,  little 
one  ? " 

"Oh!  she  is  glad  to  go  to  you,"  said  Gladys, 
as  the  child  smilingly  leaned  towards  the  out 
stretched  arms.  There  was  something  in  the  ex 
pression  of  Gladys'  beautiful  upturned  face  that 
made  the  lover's  heart  throb. 

"  Dearest,  will  you  come  now  ?  "  he  whispered  ; 
and  the  next  moment  the  strong  arms  were  folded 
around  both  mother  and  child. 

"  It  is  not,"  said  Gladys,  raising  her  head  so  that 
she  could  look  into  her  lover's  eyes,  as  they  sit 


"LOVE'S    FULFILLING."  303 

side  by  side  on  a  mossy  rock,  "  it  is  not  because 
you  love  me,  Stephen  ;  it  is  not  because  I  fancy 
that  my  love  can  be  so  much  to  you,  or  only  because 
it  is  sweet  to  feel  that  my  life  will  never  again  be 
lonely,  wrapped  round  with  your  tenderness  and 
care.  There  is  no  other  reason  but  that  I  have 
come  to  the  knowledge  that  I  do  love  you  with  all 
my  heart  and  soul  !  " 

"  Dear,  why  do  you  tell  me  that  so  earnestly  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Only  because  it  is  new  to  myself —  only  because 
I  have  but  lately  learned  to  know  that  love  is  not 
quite  what  I  once  fancied  it.  It  is  not  the  blind 
rush  of  passion  that  seizes  on  our  hearts,  and  carries 
us  we  scarcely  know  where.  It  may  be  —  and  that 
is  far  better  —  the  slow,  steady  growth  out  of  a 
deep  knowledge  of  each  other.  I  said  I  could  give 
you  nothing  less  than  my  uttermost  —  oh,  Stephen  ! 
will  you  take  me  with  my  past,  and  believe  that 
what  I  give  you  now  is  my  best  ?" 

"  My  darling,"  said  Stephen  earnestly,  "  I  am 
not  one  to  look  back  to  the  past,  and  vex  your 
heart  and  my  own  with  uneasy  questionings.  I  am 
no  jealous  or  suspicious  lover.  Believe  me,  I  take 
what  you  give  me  with  the  deepest  and  fullest 


304  "LOVES    FULFILLING. 

trust.  I  do  not  ask  to  know  just  what  its  degree 
may  be,  and,  as  I  have  never  known  myself  before 
what  love  is,  I  have  no  scale  of  comparison  by 
which  to  measure  it.  Enough  that  you  love  me, 
Gladys  —  no  woman,  remember,  ever  did  that 
before  !  " 

And  the  knowledge  that  this  was  so  far  from  the 
truth,  was  the  only  shadow  on  Gladys'  happiness ! 


Young  Folks'  Illustrated 
Quartos. 

"TO  de  Awake  Volume  Z.  Quarto,  boards,  1.75. 

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Short-story  accounts  of  living  royal  personages. 


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Peep  of  Day  Series.  3  vols.,  i.zoeach. 

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Stories  and  Pictures  of  Wild  Animals.  By  Ann« 
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Big  letters,  big  pictures  and  easy  stories  of  elephants,  lions, 
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The  experiences  of  a  Colorado  family  with  young,  wild  and 
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We  from  his  own  individual  standpoint. 


A  QUEER  LITTLE  PRINCESS.  B>  Frances  Ew>n. 
111.  Boston  :  D.  Lothrop  Co.  Price  $1.50.  This 
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little  American  girl  who  has  been  named  Henrietta, 
but  who  has  been  called  by  her  pet  name  from 
babyhood,  and  it  still  clings  to  her  at  the  age  of 
seven.  She  is  sensitive,  truth-loving,  graceful 
and  ingenuous,  a  counterpart  in  character  to  "lit 
tle  Lord  Fauntleroy,"  and,  of  course,  is  the  idol  of 
the  household.  Her  mother  is  dead,  and  she  lives 
with  her  grandmother  in  a  large  and  pleasant 
house  with  broad  grounds  where  she  can  play  and 
be  happy  from  morning  until  night.  All  children 
insensibly  try  to  copy  after  a  character  whom  they 
Admire,  and  the  "princess"  is  so  skilfully  and 
attractively  drawn  that  she  will  be  adored  by  every 
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felt  in  every  home  where  there  are  children,  where 
the  girls  will  try  to  emulate  the  little  heroine,  and 
the  boys  will  make  an  effort  to  be  as  manly,  truth 
ful,  and  self-sustaining  as  Dick.  A  very  strongly 
drawn  character  of  the  story  is  Aunt  Minerva, 
whose  crustiness  and  prejudices  are  destroyed  and 
broken  down  under  the  combined  influence  of  the 
two  children.  There  are  touches  of  pathos  scat 
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KELP.  By  "Willis  Boyd  Allen.  Pine  Cone  Serie*. 
Boston  :  D.  Lothrop  Co.  Price  §1.00.  Mr.  Allen 
has  never  written  a  more  delightful  story  than 
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from  Boston  down  to  the  Isles  of  Shoals  for  a 
fortnight,  and  describes  the  various  ways  in  which 
the  members  enjoy  themselves  during  that  happy 
time.  The  first  day  is  spent  at  the  Appleclore 
House.  The  second  sees  the  party  safely  en 
camped  on  Star  Island,  the  girls  in  the  one  soli 
tary  cabin  on  the  island,  which  has  been  especially 
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They  are  all  old  friends  of  the  reader,  Tom  and 
Bess  Percival,  Pet  Sibley,  Bert  and  Susie  Martin 
and  Nan  Burton,  all  of  whom  have  played  parts  in 
the  preceding  volumes  of  the  series.  They  crowd 
into  these  two  weeks  an  amount  of  enjoyment 
possible  only  to  young  people  of  souud  healtb, 
perfect  freedom  from  care,  and  who  are  in  per 
fect  sympathy  and  harmony  with  one  anothei 
Appleclore,  where  the  older  members  of  the  Perci- 
ral  family  are  staying,  is  only  a  mile  away,  so  that 
it  Is  an  easy  matter  any  day  to  sail  across ;  excur 
sions  are  made  to  outlying  points,  Mingo.  Star 
and  White  Islands;  and  some  of  the  trips  are 
spiced  with  genuine  danger.  They  have  the  op 
portunity  of  witnessing  a  storm  while  in  camp, 
and  of  feeling  it,  too.  No  one  who  has  ever  seen 
a  storm  off  this  group  of  islands  with  its  long 
Itretches  of  reefs  and  ledges,  will  be  apt  to  forget 
It.  The  author  must  have  himself  gone  through 
some  of  the  experiences  he  describes,  to  hare 
painted  them  so  accurately  and  vividly.  The  »tory 
is  capitally  illustrated. 


ACROSS  LOTS.  By  Horace  Lunt.  Boston :  I). 
Lothrop  Co.  Price  $1.25.  The  fact  that  John 
Burroughs  lias  written  an  introduction  to  this  col 
lection  of  essays  of  outdoor  life  in  the  country  is 
sufficient  guarantee  of  its  literary  value  without  a 
word  from  the  reviewer.  Mr.  Lunt  is  a  genuine 
lover  of  nature,  and  the  fields  and  woods  inspire 
him  to  the  utterance  of  many  charming  things  in 
its  praise.  He  writes  of  the  delights  of  country 
life;  he  tells  us  of  the  habits  of  the  birds  and 
animals;  of  the  wild  flowers  and  grasses,  of  the 
changing  aspect  of  the  seasons,  and  of  the  myriad 
things  which  make  the  country  a  paradise  for 
those  who  are  in  harmony  with  her.  The  volume 
Is  worthy  a  place  on  the  same  shelf  with  Burroughs. 

GLIMPSES  OF  CHEAT  FIELDS.  By  Rev.  J.  A. 
Hall.  Boston:  I)  Lothrop  Co.  Price  $  1.25.  The 
author  of  this  volume  takes  a  decided  stand 
dgainst  the  doctrines  of  evolution,  and  the  mate 
rialism  to  which  they  must  inevitably  lead.  He 
appeals  to  science  to  show  the  falsity  of  certain 
of  their  assumptions,  and  to  sustain  his  own 
views,  which  are  to  the  effect  that  there  must  of  a 
necessity  be  a  divine  Creator,  and  that  man,  in 
stead  of  being  evolved  through  countless  ages 
from  and  through  countless  reptilian  and  animal 
forms,  was  specially  created  and  endowed  with 
tfie  faculties  he  possesses.  The  argument  is  logi 
cal  and  strong,  and  successfully  attacks  some  of 
the  points  in  the  evolutionary  theory  which  it* 
iisciples  have  thought  secure. 


MONTEAGLE.  By  Pansy.  Boston:  D.  Lothrop 
Company.  Price  75  cents.  Both  girls  and  boys 
will  find  this  story  of  Pansy's  pleasant  and  profit 
able  reading.  Dilly  West  is  a  character  whom  the 
first  will  find  it  an  excellent  thing  to  intimate,  and 
boys  will  find  in  Hart  Hammond  a  noble,  manly, 
fellow  who  walks  for  a  time  dangerously  near 
temptation,  but  escapes  through  providential  in 
fluences,  not  the  least  of  which  is  the  steady 
devotion  to  duty  of  the  young  girl,  who  becomes 
an  unconscious  power  of  good. 

A  DOZEN  OF  THEM.  By  Pansy.  Boston:  D. 
Lothrop  Company.  Price  60  cents.  A  Sunday- 
school  story,  written  i»~  Pansy's  best  vein,  and 
having  for  its  hero  a  twelve-year-old  boy  who  has 
been  thrown  upon  the  world  by  the  death  of  his 
parents,  and  who  has  no  one  left  to  look  after 
him  but  a  sister  a  little  older,  whose  time  is  fully 
occupied  in  the  milliner's  shop  where  she  is  em 
ployed.  Joe,  for  that  is  the  boy's  name,  finds  a 
place  to  work  at  a  farmhouse  where  there  is  a  small 
private  school.  His  sister  makes  him  promise  to 
learn  by  heart  a  verse  of  Scripture  every  month. 
It  is  a  task  at  first,  but  he  is  a  boy  of  his  word, 
and  he  fulfills  his  promise,  with  what  results  the 
reader  of  the  story  will  find  out.  It  is  an  excellent 
book  for  the  Sunday-school. 

AT  HOME  AXD  ABROAD.  Stories  from  The  Pansy 
Boston:  D.  Lothrop  Company.  Price,  $1.00.  A 
score  of  short  stories  which  originally  appeared 
in  the  delightful  magazine,  The  Pansy,  have  been 
here  brought  together  in  collected  form  with  the 
Illustrations  which  originally  accompanied  them. 
They  are  from  the  pens  of  various  authors,  and 
«re  bright,  instructive  and  entertaining. 


ABOUT  GIANTS.  By  Isabel  Smithson.  Boston  t 
D.  Lothrop  Company.  Price  60  cents.  In  this 
little  volume  Miss  Smithson  has  gathered  together 
many  curious  and  interesting  facts  relating  to 
real  giants,  or  people  who  have  grown  to  an  ex 
traordinary  size.  She  does  not  believe  that  thera 
was  ever  a  race  of  giants,  but  that  those  who  are 
go-called  are  exceptional  cases,  due  to  some  freak 
of  nature.  Among  those  described  are  Cutter, 
the  Irish  giant,  who  was  eight  feet  tall,  Tony 
I'ayne,  whose  height  exceeded  seven  feet,  and 
Chang,  the  Chinese  giant,  who  was  on  exhibition 
in  this  country  a  few  years  ago.  The  volume 
contains  not  only  accounts  of  giants,  but  also  of 
dwarfs,  and  is  illustrated. 


AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  By  Amanda  B.  Harris. 
Boston:  D.  Lothrop  Company.  Price  $1.00.  This 
Is  one  of  the  books  we  can  heartily  commend  to 
young  readers,  not  only  for  its  interest,  but  for 
the  information  it  contains.  All  lovers  of  books 
have  a  natural  curiosity  to  kr.ovv  something  about 
their  writers,  and  the  better  the  books,  the  keener 
the  curiosity.  Miss  Harris  1ms  written  the  various 
chapters  of  the  volume  with  a  full  appreciation  of 
this  fact.  She  tells  us  about  the  earlier  group  of 
American  writers,  Irving,  Cooper,  Prescott,  Emer 
son,  and  Hawthorne,  all  of  whom  are  gone,  and 
also  of  some  of  those  who  came  later,  among 
them  the  Gary  sisters,  Thoreau,  Lowell,  Helen 
Hunt,  Donald  G.  Mitchell  and  others.  Miss  Har 
ris  has  a  happy  way  of  imparting  information,  and 
the  boys  and  girls  into  whose  hands  this  littJ§ 
book  may  fall  will  find  it  p leasant  reading. 


Ax  OCEAN  TRAMP.  By  Philip  D.  Heywood.  Il 
lustrated.  Boston :  P.  Lothrop  Company.  Price 
$1.25.  We  have  seen  nothing  for  a  long  time 
more  realistically  descriptive  of  life  at  sea  than 
this  little  book  of  Mr.  Heywood's.  It  is  not  a 
story  in  the  general  acceptance  of  the  term,  but  a 
plain  matter-of-fact  narrative  of  the  experiences 
of  a  country  boy  of  seventeen,  who  ran  away  from 
home  to  go  to  sea,  and  who  after  an  adventurous 
life  of  a  dozen  years  came  back  to  find  his  parents 
dead,  the  remainder  of  the  family  scattered,  and 
the  old  homestead  in  ruins.  One  cannot  help  feel 
ing  that  it  is  a  record  of  genuine  experience,  so 
naturally  do  the  incidents  follow  one  another, 
and  so  skilfully  are  they  wrought  together.  The 
Gladiator,  on  board  which  the  young  adventurer 
ships  for  his  first  voyage,  sails  from  New  York 
for  China,  under  a  captain  who  has  very  decided 
ideas  of  discipline,  and  after  a  stormy  voyage 
round  Cape  Horn  is  shipwrecked  on  an  island  ia 
Carshine  group.  Both  captain  and  mate  and  some 
of  the  crew  were  lost,  and  the  remainder  after  a 
stay  of  several  weeks  are  taken  off  by  a  German 
steamer  and  carried  to  Hong  Kong.  From  Hong 
Kong  our  author  makes  his  way  to  Shanghai,  where, 
by  a  lucky  chance,  he  gets  a  position  in  the  custom 
house,  and  remains  there  several  months.  Losing 
his  position  by  the  death  of  his  patron  he  once 
more  returns  to  sea  life,  has  an  adventure  with 
Chinese  pirates,  and  on  one  occasion,  on  a  vessel 
loaded  with  coolies,  takes  part  in  a  desperate  fight 
between  the  ship's  crew  and  the  dangerous  pas 
sengers.  The  book  is  brim  full  of  adventure,  and 
is  evidently  written  by  one  thoroughly  conversant 
with  the  life  he  depicts  and  the  places  he  describe*. 
It  is  well  illustrated. 


THE  ART  OF  LIVING.  From  the  Writings  of 
Samuel  Smilss.  With  Introduction  by  the  ven 
erable  Dr.  I  eabocly  of  Harvard  University,  and 
Biographical  Sketch  by  the  editor,  Carrie  Adelaide 
Cooke.  Bos  oil  :  D.  Lothrop  Company.  Price 
01.00. 

Samuel  Sn  lies  is  the  Benjamin  Franklin  of  Eng 
land.  His  sayings  have  a  similar  terseness,  apt 
ness  and  f  ore  i ;  they  are  directed  to  p  -actical  endsr 
like  Franklin's;  they  have  the  advantage  of  being 
nearer  our  th  ic  and  therefore  more  directly  related 
to  subjects  ipon  which  practical  wisdom  is  of 
practical  use 

Success  in  life  is  his  subject  all  through,  The  Art 
of  Living ;  a;  d  he  confesses  on  the  very  first  page 
that  "  happin  jss  consists  in  the  enjoyment  of  little 
pleasures  sea  .tered  along  the  common  path  of  life, 
which  in  the  sager  search  for  some  great  and  ex 
citing  joy  we  are  apt  to  overlook.  It  finds  delisrht 
in  the  perf 01  mance  of  common  duties  faithfully 
and  honorabl/  fulfilled." 

Let  the  reac  er  go  back  to  that  quotation  again  and 
consider  how  contrary  it  is  to  the  spirit  that  under 
lies  the  busim  «ses  that  are  nowadays  tempting  meii 
to  sudden  fortune,  torturing  with  disappointments 
nearly  all  wh> »  yield,  and  burdening  the  successful 
beyond  their  endurance,  shortening  lives  and  mak 
ing  them  wea  ry  and  most  of  them  empty. 

Is  it  worth  wkile  to  join  the  mad  rush  for  the 
lottery ;  or  tc  take  the  old  road  to  slow  success  ? 

This  book  of  the  chosen  thoughts  of  a  rare  phil 
osopher  leads  to  contentment  as  well  as  wisdom ; 
for,  when  we  choose  the  less  brilliant  course  be 
cause  we  are  sure  it  is  the  best  one,  we  have  the 
•toct  eomplet  j  and  lasting  repose  from  anxiety. 


TILTING  AT  WINDMILLS  :  A  Story  of  the  Blue 
Grass  Country.  By  Emma  M.  Connelly.  Boston : 
D.  Lothrop  Company.  12mo,  §1.50. 

NOT  since  the  days  of  "  A  Fool's  Errand  "  has  so 
strong  and  so  characteristic  a  "  border  novel "  been 
brought  to  the  attention  of  the  public  as  is  now 
presented  by  Miss  Connelly  in  this  book  which  she 
so  aptly  terms  ' '  Tilting  at  Windmills."  Indeed,  it 
is  questionable  whether  Judge  Tourgee's  famous 
book  touched  so  deftly  and  yet  so  practically  the 
real  phases  of  the  reconstruction  period  and  the 
interminable  antagonisms  of  race  and  section. 

The  self-suflicient  Boston  man,  a  capital  fellow 
at  heait,  but  tinged  with  the  traditions  and  envi 
ronments  of  his  Puritan  ancestry  and  conditions, 
coming  into  his  strange  heritage  in  Kentucky  at 
the  close  of  the  civil  war,  seeks  to  change  by  in 
stant  .manipulation  all  the  equally  strong  and  deep- 
rooted  traditions  and  environments  of  Blue  Grasa 
society. 

His  ruthless  conscience  will  allow  of  no  com 
promise,  and  the  people  whom  he  seeks  to  prose 
lyte  alike  misunderstand  his  motives  and  spurn  his 
proffered  assistance. 

Presumed  errors  are  materialized  and  partial 
evils  are  magnified.  Allerton  tilts  at  windmills 
and  with  the  customary  Quixotic  results.  He  is, 
seemingly,  unhorsed  in  every  encounter. 

Miss  Connelly's  work  in  this,  her  first  novel,  will 
make  readers  anxious  to  hear  from  her  again  and 
it  will  certainly  create,  both  in  her  own  and  other 
States,  a  strong  desire  to  see  her  next  forthcoming 
work  announced  by  the  same  publishers  in  one  of 
their  new  series — her  "  Story  of  the  State  of  KM*- 
tacky." 


THE  NORTHERN  CROSS.  By  Willi&  Boyd  Allen. 
111.  Pine  Cone  Series.  Boston  :  D.  Lothrop  Com 
pany.  Price  $1.00.  In  this  breezy  and  thoroughly 
healthy  story  of  a  boy's  life  at  school  the  author 
proves  his  right  to  a  foremost  place  among  the 
writers  of  juvenile  literature  in  this  country. 
The  story  is  local,  tbr-  scene  being  laid  in  and  about 
the  Boston  Latin  School,  from  which  institution 
the  author  was  a  graduate.  It  is,  in  fact,  largely 
a  record  of  his  own  experiences,  and  some  of  his 
descriptions  of  characters  and  incidents  are  as  ac 
curate  as  photographs.  We  are  glad  that  he  has 
put  down  that  prince  of  schoolmasters,  Dr.  Francis 
Gardner,  "  in  his  habit  as  he  lived,"  so  that  future 
generations  of  Latin  School  boys  will  know  some 
thing  of  his  personality ;  and  so  with  Mr.  Emer 
son,  whose  reputation  as  a  teacher  and  gentleman 
was  equal  to  that  of  Dr.  Gardner  himself.  We 
dare  say  many  of  the  classmates  of  the  author 
will  "ecognize  many  of  the  funny  incidents  which 
make  up  a  portion  of  the  narrative,  as  well  as  the 
actors  in  them.  Exhibition  day,  the  prize  drill  on 
the  Common  and  scenes  in  the  schoolroom  are  de 
scribed  with  infinite  relish,  and  there  isn't  a  boy 
anywhere  with  a  bit  of  boy  feeling  about  him  that 
will  not  enjoy  the  book  from  cover  to  cover.  It 
forms  one  of  the  Pine  Cone  series,  and  readers  of 
the  preceding  volumes  will  find  some  old  acquaint 
ances  in  its  pages. 


The  family  Flights,  by  Edward  Everett  Hale 
and  Susan  Hale,  are  a  series  of  book  journeys 
through  the  several  countries  with  eyes  and  ears 
wide  open,  old  eyes  and  young  eyes,  and  ears  The 
books  are  full  of  pictures,  and  fuller  of  knowl 
edge  not  only  of  what  is  going  on  but  what  has 
gone  on  ever  since  book-making  began,  and  fuller 
jet  of  brightness  and  interest.  You  see  the  old  as 
old ;  but  you  see  it ;  you  see  where  it  was  and  the 
marks  it  left.  You  see  the  new  with  eyes  made 
sharper  by  knowledge  of  what  has  gone  on  in  the 
world. 

In  other  words  these  books  amount  to  some 
thing  like  going  through  these  places  with  a  trav 
eling-companion  who  knows  all  about  them  and 
their  histories. 

They  are  written  and  pictured  for  boys  and 
girls :  but  there  is  nothing  to  hinder  the  old  folks 
going  along.  Will  you  go? 

Family  Flight  through  Fr»Mce,  Germany,  Norway  and 
Switzerland.  405  pages. 

Family  Flight  over  Egypt  and  Syria.    388  pages. 

Family  Flight  through  Spain.    360  pages. 

Family  Flight  around  Home  (which  means  about  Boston*  - 
366  pages. 

Family  Flight  through  Mexico.    300  pages. 

Each  8vo,  boards,  $1.75  ;  cloth,  $2.25. 
One  of  the  most  effective  means  of  exciting 
and  satisfying  zeal  for  knowledge  of  the  world  we 
have  in  books. 

A  good  book  for  young  folks  is  Ned  Mel 
bourne's  Mission,  not  too  good  to  have  a  spice  of 
life  and  adventure,  but  with  that  indirect  influence 
for  good  thinking  and  good  doing  that  is  more 
potent  than  a  sermon  to  young  people. 
Ned  Melbourne's  Mission.  12mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 


Date  Due 


1TEO    IN    U.S.' 


CAT.    NO.    24    161 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  546  098     5 


